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DON ORSINO 


AUTHOR or 


F. MARION CRAWFORD 

* f 

“ THE THREE FATES,” «• ZOROASTER,” ** DR. CLAUDIUS,” 
“ SARACINESCA,” ETC. 


Ncfo Unit 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 

1899 


All rights reserved 


Copyright, 1891, 

By MACMILLAN AND CO. 


Reprinted January, April, December, 1893; June, 1894; January, 
November, 1895; June, 1896; January, 1898; June, 1899. 


. ... 

fmbnry a# Supreme Council A. A.3.R. 
Aug 20,1940 


Forty-second Thousand 


Norfooob 

J. S. Cushing Sc Co. — Berwick Sc Smith 
Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 


DON ORSINO. 


CHAPTER I. 

Don Orsino Saracinesca is of the younger age and 
lives in the younger Rome, with his father and mother, 
under the roof of the vast old palace which has sheltered 
so many hundreds of Saracinesca in peace and war, but 
which has rarely in the course of the centuries been the 
home of three generations at once during one and twenty 
years. 

The lover of romance may lie in the sun, caring not 
for the time of day and content to watch the butterflies 
that cross his blue sky on the way from one flower to 
another. But the historian is an entomologist who must 
be stirring. He must catch the moths, which are his 
facts, in the net which is his memory, and he must fasten 
them upon his paper with sharp pins, which are dates. 

By far the greater number of old Prince Saracinesca’s 
contemporaries are dead, and more or less justly forgot- 
ten. Old Valdarno died long ago in his bed, surrounded 
by sons and daughters. The famous dandy of other days, 
the Duke of Astrardente, died at his young wife’s feet 
some three and twenty years before this chapter of family 
history opens. Then the primeval Prince Montevarchi 
came to a violent end at the hands of his librarian, 
leaving his English princess consolable but unconsoled, 
leaving also his daughter Elavia married to that other 
Giovanni Saracinesca who still bears the name of Mar- 
chese di San Giacinto ; while the younger girl, the fair, 
& b 1 


2 


DON OESINO. 


brown-eyed Faustina, loved a poor Frenchman, half sol- 
dier and all artist. The weak, good-natured Ascanio 
Bellegra reigns in his father’s stead, the timidly extrava- 
gant master of all that wealth which the miser’s lean and 
crooked fingers had consigned to a safe keeping. Frangi- 
pani too, whose son was to have married Faustina, is 
gone these many years, and others of the older and 
graver sort have learned the great secret from the lips of 
death. 

But there have been other and greater deaths, beside 
which the mortality of a whole society of noblemen sinks 
into insignificance. An empire is dead and another has 
arisen in the din of a vast war, begotten in bloodshed, 
brought forth in strife, baptized with fire. The France we 
knew fs gone, and the French Bepublic writes “ Liberty, 
Fraternity, Equality ” in great red letters above the gate 
of its habitation, which within is yet hung with mourning. 
Out of the nest of kings and princes and princelings, and 
of all manner of rulers great and small, rises the solitary 
eagle of the new German Empire and hangs on black 
wings between sky and earth, not striking again, but 
always ready, a vision of armed peace, a terror, a problem 
— perhaps a warning. 

Old Rome is dead, too, never to be old Rome again. 
The last breath has been breathed, the aged eyes are 
closed for ever, corruption has done its work, and the 
grand skeleton lies bleaching upon seven hills, half cov- 
ered with the piecemeal stucco of a modern architectural 
body. The result is satisfactory to those who have 
brought it about, if not to the rest of the world. The 
sepulchre of old Rome is the new capital of united Italy. 

The three chief actors are dead also — the man of 
heart, the man of action and the man of wit, the good, 
the brave and the cunning, the Pope, the King and the 
Cardinal — Pius the Ninth, Victor Emmanuel the Second, 
Giacomo Antonelli. Rome saw them all dead. 

In a poor chamber of the Vatican, upon a simple bed, 
beside which burned two waxen torches in the cold morn- 


DOST OESINO. 


3 


ing light, lay the body of the man whom none had loved 
and many had feared, clothed in the violet robe of the 
cardinal-deacon. The keen face was drawn up on one 
side with a strange look of mingled pity and contempt. 
The delicate, thin hands were clasped together on the 
breast. The chilly light fell upon the dead features, 
the silken robe and the stone floor. A single servant in 
a shabby livery stood in a corner, smiling foolishly, 
while the tears stood in his eyes and wet his unshaven 
cheeks. Perhaps he cared, as servants will, when no 
one else cares. The door opened almost directly upon a 
staircase and the noise of the feet of those passing up 
and down upon the stone steps disturbed the silence in 
the death chamber. At night the poor body was thrust 
unhonoured into a common coach and driven out to its 
resting-place. 

In a vast hall, upon an enormous catafalque, full thirty 
feet above the floor, lay all that was left of the honest 
king. Thousands of wax candles cast their light up to 
the dark, shapeless face, and upon the military accoutre- 
ments of the uniform in which the huge body was 
clothed. A great crowd pressed to the railing to gaze 
their fill and go away. Behind the division tall troopers 
in cuirasses mounted guard and moved carelessly about. 
It was all tawdry, but tawdry on a magnificent scale — 
all unlike the man in whose honour it was done. Por he 
had been simple and brave. 

When he was at last borne to his tomb in the 
Pantheon, a file of imperial and royal princes marched 
shoulder to shoulder down the street before him, and the 
black charger he had loved was led after him. 

In a dim chapel of St. Peter’s lay the Pope, robed 
in white, the jewelled tiara upon his head, his white face 
calm and peaceful. Six torches burned beside him ; six 
nobles of the guard stood like statues with drawn swords, 
three on his right hand and three on his left. That was 
all. The crowd passed in single file before the great 
closed gates of the Julian Chapel. 


4 


DON ORSINO. 


At night he was borne reverently by loving hands to 
the deep crypt below. But at another time, at night 
also, the dead man was taken up and driven towards the 
gate to be buried without the walls. Then a great 
crowd assembled in the darkness and fell upon the little 
band and stoned the coffin of him who never harmed 
any man, and screamed out curses and blasphemies till 
all the city was astir with riot. That was the last 
funeral hymn. 

Old Rome is gone. The narrow streets are broad 
thoroughfares, the Jews’ quarter is a flat and dusty 
building lot, the fountain of Ponte Sisto is swept away, 
one by one the mighty pines of Villa Ludovisi have 
fallen under axe and saw, and a cheap, thinly inhabited 
quarter is built upon the site of the enchanted garden. 
The network of by-ways from the Jesuits’ church to the 
Sant’ Angelo bridge is ploughed up and opened by the 
huge Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. Buildings which 
strangers used to search for in the shade, guide-book 
and map in hand, are suddenly brought into the blaze of 
light that fills broad streets and sweeps across great 
squares. The vast Cancelleria stands out nobly to the 
sun, the curved front of the Massimo palace exposes its 
black colonnade to sight upon the greatest thorough- 
fare of the new city, the ancient Arco de’ Cenci exhibits 
its squalor in unshadowed sunshine, the Portico of 
Octavia once more looks upon the river. 

He who was born and bred in the Rome of twenty years 
ago comes back after a long absence to wander as a 
stranger in streets he never knew, among houses un- 
familiar to him, amidst a population whose speech 
sounds strange in his ears. He roams the city from the 
Lateran to the Tiber, from the Tiber to the Vatican, 
finding himself now and then before some building once 
familiar in another aspect, losing himself perpetually in 
unprofitable wastes made more monotonous than the 
sandy desert by the modern builder’s art. Where once 
he lingered in old days to glance at the river, or to 


DON ORSINO. 


5 


dream of days yet older and long gone, scarce conscious 
of the beggar at his elbow and hardly seeing the half 
dozen workmen who laboured at their trades almost in 
the middle of the public way — where all was once aged 
and silent and melancholy and full of the elder memories 
— there, at that very corner, he is hustled and jostled by 
an eager crowd, thrust to the wall by huge, grinding, 
creaking carts, threatened with the modern death by the 
wheel of the modern omnibus, deafened by the yells of 
the modern newsvendors, robbed, very likely, by the 
light fingers of the modern inhabitant. 

And yet he feels that Eome must be Eome still. He 
stands aloof and gazes at the sight as upon a play in 
which Eome herself is the great heroine and actress. 
He knows the woman and he sees the artist for the first 
time, not recognising her. She is a dark-eyed, black- 
haired, thoughtful woman when not upon the stage. 
How should he know her in the strange disguise, her 
head decked with Gretchen’s fair tresses, her olive cheek 
daubed with pink and white paint, her stately form 
clothed in garments that would be gay and girlish but 
which are only unbecoming ? He would gladly go out 
and wait by the stage door until the performance is over, 
to see the real woman pass him in the dim light of the 
street lamps as she enters her carriage and becomes her- 
self again. And so, in the reality, he turns his back 
upon the crowd and strolls away, not caring whither he 
goes until, by a mere accident, he finds himself upon the 
height of Sant 5 Onofrio, or standing before the great 
fountains of the Acqua Paola, or perhaps upon the drive 
which leads through the old Villa Corsini along the crest 
of the Janiculum. Then, indeed, the scene thus changes, 
the actress is gone and the woman is before him; the 
capital of modern Italy sinks like a vision into the earth 
out of which it was called up, and the capital of the 
world rises once more, unchanged, unchanging and un- 
changeable, before the wanderer’s eyes,. The greater 
monuments of greater times are there still, majestic and 


6 


DOST OESINO. 


unmoved, the larger signs of a larger age stand out clear 
and sharp ; the tomb of Hadrian frowns on the yellow 
stream, the heavy hemisphere of the Pantheon turns its 
single opening to the sky, the enormous dome of the 
world’s cathedral looks silently down upon the sepulchre 
of the world’s masters. 

Then the sun sets and the wanderer goes down again 
through the chilly evening air to the city below, to find 
it less modern than he had thought. He has found 
what he sought and he knows that the real will outlast 
the false, that the stone will outlive the stucco and that 
the builder of to-day is but a builder of card-houses be- 
side the architects who made Rome. 

So his heart softens a little, or at least grows less re- 
sentful, for he has realised how small the change really 
is as compared with the first effect produced. The great 
house has fallen into new hands and the latest tenant is 
furnishing the dwelling to his taste. That is all. He 
will not tear down the walls, for his hands are too feeble 
to build them again, even if he were not occupied with 
other matters and hampered by the disagreeable con- 
sciousness of the extravagances he has already com- 
mitted. 

Other things have been accomplished, some of which 
may perhaps endure, and some of which are good in 
themselves, while some are indifferent and some dis- 
tinctly bad. The great experiment of Italian unity is 
in process of trial and the world is already forming its 
opinion upon the results. Society, heedless as it neces- 
sarily is of contemporary history, could not remain 
indifferent to the transformation of its accustomed sur- 
roundings ; and here, before entering upon an account of 
individual doings, the chronicler may be allowed to say 
a few words upon a matter little understood by foreign- 
ers, even when they have spent several seasons in Rome 
and have made acquaintance with each other for the pur- 
pose of criticising the Romans. 

Immediately after the taking of the city in 1870, three 


DON ORSINO. 


7 


distinct parties declared themselves, to wit, the Clericals 
or Blacks, the Monarchists or Whites, and the Republi- 
cans or Reds. All three had doubtless existed for a con- 
siderable time, but the wine of revolution favoured the 
expression of the truth, and society awoke one morning 
to find itself divided into camps holding very different 
opinions. 

At first the mass of the greater nobles stood together 
for the lost temporal power of the Pope, while a great 
number of the less important families followed two or 
three great houses in siding with the Royalists. The 
Republican idea, as was natural, found but few sym- 
pathisers in the highest class, and these were, I believe, 
in all cases young men whose fathers were Blacks or 
Whites, and most of whom have since thought fit to 
modify their opinions in one direction or the other. 
Nevertheless the Red interest was, and still is, tolerably 
strong and has been destined to play that powerful part 
in parliamentary life, which generally falls to the lot 
of a compact third party, where a fourth does not yet 
exist, or has no political influence, as is the case in 
Rome. 

For there is a fourth body in Rome, which has little 
political but much social importance. It was not possi- 
ble that people who had grown up together in the in- 
timacy of a close caste-life, calling each other “ thee ” and 
“thou,” and forming the hereditary elements of a still 
feudal organisation, should suddenly break off all ac- 
quaintance and be strangers one to another. The 
brother, a born and convinced clerical, found that his 
own sister had followed her husband to the court of the 
new King. The rigid adherent of the old order met his 
own son in the street, arrayed in the garb of an Italian 
officer. The two friends who had stood side by side in 
good and evil case for a score of years saw themselves 
suddenly divided by the gulf which lies between a 
Roman cardinal and a Senator of the Italian Kingdom. 
The breach was sudden and great, but it was bridged for 


8 


DON ORSINO. 


many by the invention of a fourth proportional. The 
points of contact between White and Black became Grey, 
and a social power, politically neutral and constitution' 
ally indifferent, arose as a mediator between the Con- 
tents and the Malcontents. There were families that 
had never loved the old order but which distinctly dis- 
liked the new, and who opened their doors to the adher- 
ents of both. There is a house which has become Grey 
out of a sort of superstition inspired by the unfortunate 
circumstances which oddly coincided with each move- 
ment of its members to join the new order. There is 
another, and one of the greatest, in which a very high 
hereditary dignity in the one party, still exercised by 
force of circumstances, effectually forbids the expres- 
sion of a sincere sympathy with the opposed power. 
Another there is, whose members are cousins of the one 
sovereign and personal friends of the other. 

A further means of amalgamation has been found in 
the existence of the double embassies of the great powers. 
Austria, France and Spain each send an Ambassador to 
the King of Italy and an Ambassador to the Pope, of 
like state and importance. Even Protestant Prussia 
maintains a Minister Plenipotentiary to the Holy See. 
Russia has her diplomatic agent to the Vatican, and 
several of the smaller powers keep up two distinct lega- 
tions. It is naturally neither possible nor intended that 
these diplomatists should never meet on friendly terms, 
though they are strictly interdicted from issuing official 
invitations to each other. Their point of contact is 
another grey square on the chess-board. 

The foreigner, too, is generally a neutral individual, 
for if his political convictions lean towards the wrong 
side of the Tiber his social tastes incline to Court balls ; 
or if he is an admirer of Italian institutions, his curi- 
osity may yet lead him to seek a presentation at the 
Vatican, and his inexplicable though recent love of 
feudal princedom may take him, card-case in hand, to 
that great stronghold of Vaticanism which lies due west 
of the Piazza di Venezia and due north of the Capitol. 


DON OKSINO. 


9 


During the early years which followed the change, the 
attitude of society in Eome was that of protest and in- 
dignation on the one hand, of enthusiasm and rather 
brutally expressed triumph on the other. The line was 
very clearly drawn, for the adherence was of the nature 
of personal loyalty on both sides. Eight years and a 
half later the personal feeling disappeared with the al- 
most simultaneous death of Pius IX. and Victor Emman- 
uel II. From that time the great strife degenerated by 
degrees into a difference of opinion. It may perhaps 
be said also that both parties became aware of their 
common enemy, the social democrat, soon after the dis- 
appearance of the popular King whose great individual 
influence was of more value to the cause of a united 
monarchy than all the political clubs and organisations 
in Italy put together. He was a strong man. He only 
once, I think, yielded to the pressure of a popular excite- 
ment, namely, in the matter of seizing Pome when the 
French troops were withdrawn, thereby violating a rati- 
fied Treaty. But his position was a hard one. He 
regretted the apparent necessity, and to the day of his 
death he never would sleep under the roof of Pius the 
Ninth's Palace on the Quirinal, but had his private 
apartments in an adjoining building. He was brave and 
generous. Such faults as he had were no burden to the 
nation and concerned himself alone. The same praise 
may be worthily bestowed upon his successor, but the 
personal influence is no longer the same, any more than 
that of Leo XIII. can be compared with that of Pius 
IX., though all the world is aware of the present Pope's 
intellectual superiority and lofty moral principle. 

Let us try to be just. The unification of Italy has 
been the result of a noble conception. The execution of 
the scheme has not been without faults, and some of 
these faults have brought about deplorable, even dis- 
astrous, consequences, such as to endanger the stability 
of the new order. The worst of these attendant errors 
has been the sudden imposition of a most superficial and 


10 


DON ORSINO. 


vicious culture, under the name of enlightenment and 
education. The least of the new Government’s mistakes 
has been a squandering of the public money, which, when 
considered with reference to the country’s resources, has 
perhaps no parallel in the history of nations. 

Yet the first idea was large, patriotic, even grand. 
The men who first steered the ship of the state were 
honourable, disinterested, devoted — men like Minghetti, 
who will not soon be forgotten — loyal, conservative 
monarchists, whose thoughts were free from exaggera- 
tion, save that they believed almost too blindly in the 
power of a constitution to build up a kingdom, and 
credited their fellows almost too readily with a purpose 
as pure and blameless as their own. Can more be said 
for these? I think not. They rest in honourable graves, 
their doings live in honoured remembrance — would that 
there had been such another generation to succeed them. 

And having said thus much, let us return to the indi- 
viduals who have played a part in the history of the 
Saracinesca. They have grown older, some gracefully, 
some under protest, some most unbecomingly. 

In the end of the year 1887 old Leone Saracinesca is 
still alive, being eighty-two years of age. His massive 
head has sunk a little between his slightly rounded 
shoulders, and his white beard is no longer cut short and 
square, but flows majestically down upon his broad 
breast. His step is slow, but firm still, and when he 
looks up suddenly from under his wrinkled lids, the fire 
is not even yet all gone from his eyes. He is still con- 
tradictory by nature, but he has mellowed like rare wine 
in the long years of prosperity and peace. When the 
change came in Eome he was in the mountains at Sara- 
cinesca, with his daughter-in-law, Corona and her chil- 
dren. His son Giovanni, generally known as Prince of 
Sant’ Ilario, was among the volunteers at the last and 
sat for half a day upon his horse in the Pincio, listening 
to the bullets that sang over his head while his men fired 
stray shots from the parapets of the public garden into 


DON ORSINO. 


11 


the road below. Giovanni is fifty-two years old, but 
though his hair is grey at the temples and his figure 
a trifle sturdier and broader than of old, he is little 
changed. His son, Orsino, who will soon be of age, over- 
tops him by a head and shoulders, a dark youth, slender 
still, but strong and active, the chief person in this por- 
tion of my chronicle. Orsino has three brothers of 
ranging ages, of whom the youngest is scarcely twelve 
years old. Not one girl child has been given to Giovanni 
and Corona and they almost wish that one of the sturdy 
little lads had been a daughter. But old Saracinesca 
laughs and shakes his head and says he will not die till 
his four grandsons are strong enough to bear him to his 
grave upon their shoulders. 

Corona is still beautiful, still dark, still magnificent, 
though she has reached the age beyond which no woman 
ever goes until after death. There are few lines in the 
noble face and such as are there are not the scars of 
heart wounds. Her life, too, has been peaceful and 
undisturbed by great events these many years. There is, 
indeed, one perpetual anxiety in her existence, for the 
old prince is an aged man and she loves him dearly. 
The tough strength must give way some day and there 
will be a great mourning in the house of Saracinesca, nor 
will any mourn the dead more sincerely than Corona. 
And there is a shade of bitterness in the knowledge that 
her marvellous beauty is waning. Can she be blamed 
for that ? She has been beautiful so long. What 
woman who has been first for a quarter of a century can 
give up her place without a sigh? But much has been 
given to her to soften the years of transition, and she 
knows that also, when she looks from her husband to her 
four boys. 

Then, too, it seems more easy to grow old when she 
catches a glimpse from time to time of Donna Tullia Del 
Ferice, who wears her years ungracefully, and^who was 
once so near to becoming Giovanni Saracinesca’ s wife. 
Donna Tullia is fat and fiery of complexion, uneasily 


12 


DON ORSINO. 


vivacious and unsure of herself. Her disagreeable blue 
eyes have not softened, nor has the metallic tone of her 
voice lost its sharpness. Yet she should not be a dis- 
appointed woman, for Del Ferice is a power in the land, 
a member of parliament, a financier and a successful 
schemer, whose doors are besieged by parasites and his 
dinner-table by those who wear fine raiment and dwell 
in kings* palaces. Del Ferice is the central figure in 
the great building syndicates which in 1887 are at the 
height of their power. He juggles with millions of 
money, with miles of real estate, with thousands of work- 
men. He is director of a bank, president of a political 
club, chairman of half a dozen companies and a deputy 
in the chambers. But his face is unnaturally pale, his 
body is over-corpulent, and he has trouble with his heart. 
The Del Ferice couple are childless, to their own great 
satisfaction. 

Anastase Gouache, the great painter, is also in Borne. 
Sixteen years ago he married the love of his life, Faustina 
Montevarchi, in spite of the strong opposition of her 
family. But times had changed. A new law existed 
and the thrice repeated formal request for consent made 
by Faustina to her mother, freed her from parental 
authority and brotherly interference. She and her hus- 
band passed through some very lean years in the begin- 
ning, but fortune has smiled upon them since that. 
Anastase is very famous. His character has changed 
little. With the love of the ideal republic in his heart, 
he shed his blood at Mentana for the great conservative 
principle, he fired his last shot for the same cause at the 
Porta Pia on the twentieth of September 1870; a month 
later he was fighting for France under the gallant 
Charette — whether for France imperial, regal or repub- 
lican he never paused to ask; he was wounded in fight- 
ing against the Commune, and decorated for painting the 
portrait of Gambetta, after which he returned to Borne, 
cursed politics and married the woman he loved, which 
was, on the whole, the wisest course he could have 


DON ORSINO. 


13 


followed. He has two children, both girls, aged now 
respectively fifteen and thirteen. His virtues are many, 
but they do not include economy. Though his savings 
are small and he depends upon his brush, he lives in one 
wing of an historic palace and gives dinners which are 
famous. He proposes to reform and become a miser 
when his daughters are married. 

“ Misery will be the foundation of my second manner, 
my angel,” he says to his wife, when he has done some- 
thing unusually extravagant. 

But Faustina laughs softly and winds her arm about 
his neck as they look together at the last great picture. 
Anastase has not grown fat. The gods love him and 
have promised him eternal youth. He can still buckle 
round his slim waist the military belt of twenty years 
ago, and there is scarcely one white thread in his black 
hair. 

San Giacinto, the other Saracinesca, who married 
Faustina’s elder sister Fla via, is in process of making a 
great fortune, greater perhaps than the one so nearly 
thrust upon him by old Montevarchi’s compact with 
Meschini the librarian and forger. He had scarcely 
troubled himself to conceal his opinions before the 
change of government, being by nature a calm, fearless 
man, and under the new order he unhesitatingly sided 
with the Italians, to the great satisfaction of Flavia, who 
foresaw years of dulness for the mourning party of the 
Blacks. He had already brought to Borne the two boys 
who remained to him from his first marriage with Sera- 
fina Baldi — the little girl who had been born between the 
other two children had died in infancy — and the lads 
had been educated at a military college, and in 1887 are 
both officers in the Italian cavalry, sturdy and somewhat 
thick-skulled patriots, but gentlemen nevertheless in 
spite of the peasant blood. They are tall fellows enough 
but neither of then! has inherited the father’s colossal 
stature, and San Giacinto looks with a very little envy 
on his young kinsman Orsino who has outgrown his 


14 


DON ORSINO. 


cousins. This second marriage has brought him issue, 
a boy and a girl, and the fact that he has now four chil- 
dren to provide for has had much to do with his activity 
in affairs. He was among the first to see that an 
enormous fortune was to be made in the first rush for 
land in the city, and he realised all he possessed, and 
borrowed to the full extent of his credit to pay the first 
instalments on the land he bought, risking everything 
with the calm determination and cool judgment which 
lay at the root of his strong character. He was im- 
mensely successful, but though he had been bold to reck- 
lessness at the right moment, he saw the great crash 
looming in the near future, and when the many were 
frantic to buy and invest, no matter at what loss, his 
millions were in part safely deposited in national bonds, 
and in part as securely invested in solid and profitable 
buildings of which the rents are little liable to fluctua- 
tion. Brought up to know what money means, he is not 
easily carried away by enthusiastic reports. He knows 
that when the hour of fortune is at hand no price is too 
great to pay for ready capital, but he understands that 
when the great rush for success begins the psychological 
moment of finance is already passed. When he dies, if 
such strength as his can yield to death, he will die the 
richest man in Italy, and he will leave what is rare in 
Italian finance, a stainless name. 

Of one person more I must speak, who has played a 
part in this family history. The melancholy Spicca 
still lives his lonely life in the midst of the social world. 
He affects to be a little old-fashioned in his dress. His 
tall thin body stoops ominously and his cadaverous face 
is more grave and ascetic than ever. He is said to have 
been suffering from a mortal disease these fifteen years, 
but still he goes everywhere, reads everything and knows 
every one. He is between sixty and seventy years old, 
but no one knows his precise age. The foils he once 
used so well hang untouched and rusty above his fire- 
place, but his reputation survives the lost strength of his 


DON ORSINO. 


15 


supple wrist, and there are few in Rome, brave men or 
hair brained youths, who would willingly anger him even 
now. He is still the great duellist of his day; the 
emaciated fingers might still find their old grip upon a 
sword hilt, the long, listless arm might perhaps once 
more shoot out with lightning speed, the dull eye might 
once again light up at the clash of steel. Peaceable, 
charitable when none are at hand to see him give, 
gravely gentle now in manner, Count Spicca is thought 
dangerous still. But he is indeed very lonely in his old 
age, and if the truth be told his fortune seems to have 
suffered sadly of late years, so that he rarely leaves 
Pome, even in the hot summer, and it is very long since 
he spent six weeks in Paris or risked a handful of gold at 
Monte Carlo. Yet his life is not over, and he has still 
a part to play, for his own sake and for the sake of 
another, as shall soon appear more clearly. 


CHAPTER II. 

Orsino Saracinesca’s education was almost completed. 
It had been of the modern kind, for his father had 
early recognised that it would be a disadvantage to the 
young man in after life if he did not follow the course 
of study and pass the examinations required of every 
Italian subject who wishes to hold office in his own 
country. Accordingly, though he had not been sent to 
public schools, Orsino had been regularly entered since 
his childhood for the public examinations and had passed 
them all in due order, with great difficulty and indiffer- 
ent credit. After this preliminary work he had been at 
an English University for four terms, not with any view 
to his obtaining a degree after completing the necessary 
residence, but in order that he might perfect himself in 
the English language, associate with young men of his 


16 


DON OE.S1NO. 


own age and social standing, though of different nation- 
ality, and acquire that final polish which is so highly 
valued in the human furniture of society’s temples. 

Orsino was not more highly gifted as to intelligence 
than many young men of his age and class. Like many 
of them he spoke English admirably, French tolerably, 
and Italian with a somewhat Roman twang. He had 
learned a little German and was rapidly forgetting it 
again; Latin and Greek had been exhibited to him as 
dead languages, and he felt no more inclination to assist 
in their resurrection than is felt by most boys in our day. 
He had been taught geography in the practical, con- 
tinental manner, by being obliged to draw maps from 
memory. He had been instructed in history, not by 
parallels, but as it were by tangents, a method produc- 
tive of odd results, and he had advanced just far enough 
in the study of mathematics to be thoroughly confused 
by the terms “ differentiation ” and “ integration.” Be- 
sides these subjects, a multitude of moral and natural 
sciences had been made to pass in a sort of panorama 
before his intellectual vision, including physics, chemis- 
try, logic, rhetoric, ethics and political economy, with a 
view to cultivating in him the spirit of the age. The 
Ministry of Public Instruction having decreed that the 
name of God shall be for ever eliminated from all 
modern books in use in Italian schools and universities, 
Orsino’s religious instruction had been imparted at home 
and had at least the advantage of being homogeneous. 

It must not be supposed that Orsino’ s father and 
mother were satisfied with this sort of education. But 
it was not easy to foresee what social and political 
changes might come about before the boy reached mature 
manhood. Neither Giovanni nor his wife were of the 
absolutely “ intransigent ” way of thinking. They saw 
no imperative reason to prevent their sons from joining 
at some future time in the public life of their country, 
though they themselves preferred not to associate with 
the party at present in power. Moreover Giovanni 


DON ORSINO. 


17 


Saracinesca saw that the abolition of primogeniture had 
put an end to hereditary idleness, and that although his 
sons would be rich enough to do nothing if they pleased, 
yet his grandchildren would probably have to choose 
between work and genteel poverty, if it pleased the fates 
to multiply the race. He could indeed leave one half of 
his wealth intact to Orsino, but the law required that 
the other half should be equally divided among all; and 
as the same thing would take place in the second genera- 
tion, unless a reactionary revolution intervened, the 
property would before long be divided into very small 
moieties indeed. For Giovanni had no idea of imposing 
celibacy upon his younger sons, still less of exerting 
any influence he possessed to make them enter the 
Church. He was too broad in his views for that. They 
promised to turn out as good men in a struggle as the 
majority of those who would be opposed to them in life, 
and they should fight their own battles unhampered by 
parental authority or caste prejudice. 

Many years earlier Giovanni had expressed his convic- 
tions in regard to the change of order then imminent. 
He had said that he would fight as long as there was 
anything to fight for, but that if the change came he 
would make the best of it. He was now keeping his 
word. He had fought as far as fighting had been possi- 
ble and had sincerely wished that his warlike career 
might have offered more excitement and opportunity for 
personal distinction than had been afforded him in 
spending an afternoon on horseback, listening to the 
singing of bullets overhead. His amateur soldiering 
was over long ago, but he was strong, brave and intelli- 
gent, and if he had been convinced that a second and 
more radical revolution could accomplish any good re- 
sult, he would have been capable of devoting himself to 
its cause with a single-heartedness not usual in these 
days. But he was not convinced. He therefore lived 
a quiet life, making the best of the present, improving 
his lands and doing his best to bring up his sons in such 

G 


18 


DON ORSINO. 


a way as to give them a chance of success when the 
struggle should come. Orsino was his eldest born and 
the results of modern education became apparent in him 
first, as was inevitable. 

Orsino was at this time not quite twenty-one years of 
age, but the important day was not far distant and in 
order to leave a lasting memorial of the attaining of his 
majority Prince Saracinesca had decreed that Corona 
should receive a portrait of her eldest son executed by 
the celebrated Anastase Gouache. To this end the 
young man spent three mornings in every week in the 
artist’s palatial studio, a place about as different from 
the latter’s first den in the Via San Basilio as the 
Basilica of Saint Peter is different from a roadside 
chapel in the Abruzzi. Those who have seen the suc- 
cessful painter of the nineteenth century in his glory 
will have less difficulty in imagining the scene of 
Gouache’s labours than the writer finds in describing it. 
The workroom is a hall, the ceiling is a vault thirty feet 
high, the pavement is of polished marble; the light 
enters by north windows which would not look small in 
a good-sized church, the doors would admit a carriage 
and pair, the tapestries upon the walls would cover the 
front of a modern house. Everything is on a grand 
scale, of the best period, of the most genuine descrip- 
tion. Three or four originals of great masters, of Titian, 
of Eeubens, of Van Dyck, stand on huge easels in the 
most favourable lights. Some scores of matchless an- 
tique fragments, both of bronze and marble, are placed 
here and there upon superb carved tables and shelves 
of the sixteenth century. The only reproduction visible 
in the place is a very perfect cast of the Hermes of 
Olympia. The carpets are all of Shiraz, Sinna, Gjordez 
or old Baku — no common thing of Smyrna, no unclean 
aniline production of Busso-Asiatic commerce disturbs 
the universal harmony. In a full light upon the wall 
hangs a single silk carpet of wonderful tints, famous in 
the history of Eastern collections, and upon it is set at 


DON OKSINO. 


19 


a slanting angle a single priceless Damascus blade — a 
sword to possess which an Arab or a Circassian would 
commit countless crimes. Anastase Gouache is magnifi- 
cent in all his tastes and in all his ways. His studio 
and his dwelling are his only estate, his only capital, 
his only wealth, and he does not take the trouble to con- 
ceal the fact. The very idea of a fixed income is as dis- 
tasteful to him as the possibility of possessing it is 
distant and visionary. There is always money in abun- 
dance, money for Faustina’s horses and carriages, money 
for Gouache’s select dinners, money for the expensive 
fancies of both. The paint pot is the mine, the brush is 
the miner’s pick, and the vein has never failed, nor the 
hand trembled in working it. A golden youth, a golden 
river flowing softly to the red gold sunset of the end — 
that is life as it seems to Anastase and Faustina. 

On the morning which opens this chronicle, Anastase 
was standing before his canvas, palette and brushes in 
hand, considering the nature of the human face in gen- 
eral and of young Orsino’s face in particular. 

“ I have known your father and mother for centuries, ” 
observed the painter with a fine disregard of human limi- 
tations. “Your father is the brown type of a dark man, 
and your mother is the olive type of a dark woman. 
They are no more alike than a Fed Indian and an Arab, 
but you are like both. Are you brown or are you olive, 
my friend? That is the question. I would like to see 
you angry, or in love, or losing at , play. Those things 
bring out the real complexion.” 

Orsino laughed and showed a remarkably solid set of 
teeth. But he did not find anything to say. 

“I would like to know the truth about your com- 
plexion,” said Anastase, meditatively. 

“I have no particular reason for being angry,” an- 
swered Orsino, “ and I am not in love ” 

“ At your age ! Is it possible ! ” 

“Quite. But I will play cards with you if you like,” 
concluded the young man. 


20 


DON ORSINO. 


“No,” returned the other. “ It would be of no use. 
You would win, and if you happened to win much, I 
should be in a diabolical scrape. But I wish you would 
fall in loye. You should see how I would handle the 
green shadows under your eyes.” 

“It is rather short notice.” 

“ The shorter the better. I used to think that the only 
real happiness in life lay in getting into trouble, and 
the only real interest in getting out.” 

“And have you changed your mind?” 

“I? No. My mind has changed me. It is astonish- 
ing how a man may love his wife under favourable cir- 
cumstances.” 

Anastase laid down his brushes and lit a cigarette. 
Reubens would have sipped a few drops of Rhenish from 
a Venetian glass. Teniers would have lit a clay pipe. 
Diirer would perhaps have swallowed a pint of Nurem- 
berg beer, and Greuse or Mignard would have resorted 
to their snuff-boxes. We do not know what Michel- 
angelo or Perugino did under the circumstances, but it is 
tolerably evident that the man of the nineteenth century 
cannot think without talking and cannot talk without 
cigarettes. Therefore Anastase began to smoke and 
Orsino, being young and imitative, followed his example. 

“You have been an exceptionally fortunate man,” 
remarked the latter, who was not old enough to be any- 
thing but cynical in his views of life. 

“ Do you think so? Yes — I have been fortunate. But 
I do not like to think that my happiness has been so very 
exceptional. The world is a good place, full of happy 
people. It must be — otherwise purgatory and hell would 
be useless institutions.” 

“You do not suppose all people to be good as well as 
happy then,” said Orsino with a laugh. 

“Good? What is goodness, my friend? One half of 
the theologians tell us that we shall be happy if we are 
good and the other half assure us that the only wav to 
be good is to abjure earthly happiness. If you will be- 


DON OKSINO. 


21 


lieve me, you will never commit the supreme error of 
choosing between the two methods. Take the world as 
it is, and do not ask too many questions of the fates. If 
you are willing to be happy, happiness will come in its 
own shape.” 

Orsino’s young face expressed rather contemptuous 
amusement. At twenty, happiness is a dull word, and 
satisfaction spells excitement. 

“That is the way people talk,” he said. “You have 
got everything by fighting for it, and you advise me to 
sit still till the fruit drops into my mouth.” 

“I was obliged to fight. Everything comes to you 
naturally — fortune, rank — everything, including mar- 
riage. Why should you lift a hand? ” 

“ A man cannot possibly be happy who marries before 
he is thirty years old,” answered Orsino with convic- 
tion. “ How do you expect me to occupy myself during 
the next ten years?” 

“That is true,” Gouache replied, somewhat thought- 
fully, as though the consideration had not struck him. 

“If I were an artist, it would be different.” 

“Oh, very different. I agree with you.” Anastase 
smiled good-humouredly. 

“ Because I should have talent — and a talent is an oc- 
cupation in itself.” 

“ I daresay you would have talent,” Gouache answered, 
still laughing. 

“No — I did not mean it in that way — I mean that 
when a man has a talent it makes him think of some- 
thing besides himself.” 

“ I fancy there is more truth in that remark than either 
you or I would at first think,” said the painter in a 
meditative tone. 

“Of course there is,” returned the youthful philoso- 
pher, with more enthusiasm than he would have cared to 
show if he had been talking to a woman. “What is 
talent but a combination of the desire to do and the 
power to accomplish? As for genius, it is never selfish 
when it is at work.” 


22 


DON ORSINO. 


“Is that reflection your own?” 

“I think so,” answered Orsino modestly. He was 
secretly pleased that a man of the artist’s experience 
and reputation should be struck by his remark. 

“I do not think I agree with you,” said Gouache. 

Orsino’ s expression changed a little. He was disap- 
pointed, but he said nothing. 

“ I think that a great genius is often ruthless. Do you 
remember how Beethoven congratulated a young com- 
poser after the first performance of his opera? ‘I like 
your opera — I will write music to it. ’ That was a fine 
instance of unselfishness, was it not. I can see the 
young man’s face ” Anastase smiled. 

“Beethoven was not at work when he made the re- 
mark,” observed Orsino, defending himself. 

“Nor am I,” said Gouache, taking up his brushes 
again. “ If you will resume the pose — so — thoughtful 
but bold — imagine that you are already an ancestor con- 
templating posterity from the height of a nobler age — 
you understand. Try and look as if you were already 
framed and hanging in the Saracinesca gallery between a 
Titian and a Giorgione.” 

Orsino resumed his position and scowled at Anastase 
with a good will. 

“Not quite such a terrible frown, perhaps,” suggested 
the latter. “When you do that, you certainly look like 
the gentleman who murdered the Colonna in a street 
brawl — I forget how long ago. You have his portrait. 
But I fancy the Princess would prefer — yes — that is 
more natural. You have her eyes. How the world 
raved about her twenty years ago — and raves still, for 
that matter.” 

“ She is the most beautiful woman in the world, ” said 
Orsino. There was something in the boy’s unaffected 
admiration of his mother which contrasted pleasantly 
with his youthful affectation of cynicism and indiffer- 
ence. His handsome face lighted up a little, and the 
painter worked rapidly. 


DON OKSINO. 


23 


But the expression was not lasting. Orsino was at the 
age when most young men take the trouble to cultivate 
a manner, and the look of somewhat contemptuous 
gravity which he had lately acquired was already becom- 
ing habitual. Since all men in general have adopted 
the fashion of the mustache, youths who are still wait- 
ing for the full crop seem to have difficulty in managing 
fcheir mouths. Some draw in their lips with that air of 
unnatural sternness observable in rough weather among 
passengers on board ship, just before they relinquish the 
struggle and retire from public life. Others contract 
their mouths to the shape of a heart, while there are yet 
others who lose control of the pendant lower lip and are 
content to look like idiots, while expecting the hairy 
growth which is to make them look like men. Orsino 
had chosen the least objectionable idiosyncrasy and had 
elected to be of a stern countenance. When he forgot 
himself he was singularly handsome, and Gouache lay in 
wait for his moments of forgetfulness. 

“You are quite right,” said the Frenchman. “From 
the classic point of view your mother was and is the 
most beautiful dark woman in the world. For myself 
— well in the first place, you are her son, and secondly 
I am an artist and not a critic. The painter’s tongue is 
his brush and his words are colours.” 

“What were you going to say about my mother?” 
asked Orsino with some curiosity. 

“ Oh — nothing. Well, if you must hear it, the Princess 
represents my classical ideal, but not my personal ideal. 
I have admired some one else more.” 

“ Donna Faustina? ” enquired Orsino. 

“Ah well, my friend — she is my wife, you see. That 
always makes a great difference in the degree of admira- 
tion ” 

“Generally in the opposite direction,” Orsino observed 
in a tone of elderly unbelief. 

Gouache had just put his brush into his mouth and 
held it between his teeth as a poodle carries a stick, 


24 


DON ORSINO. 


while he used his thumb on the canvas. The modern 
painter paints with everything, not excepting his fin- 
gers. He glanced at his model and then at his work, 
and got his effect before he answered. 

“You are very hard upon marriage,” he said quietly. 
“Have you tried it?” 

“Hot yet. I will wait as long as possible, before I do. 
It is not every one who has your luck.” 

“There was something more than luck in my mar- 
riage. We loved each other, it is true, but there were 
difficulties — you have no idea what difficulties there 
were. But Faustina was brave and I caught a little 
courage from her. Do you know that when the Serristori 
barracks were blown up she ran out alone to find me 
merely because she thought I might have been killed? 
I found her in the ruins, praying for me. It was sub- 
lime.” 

“ I have heard that. She was very brave ” 

“And I a poor Zouave — and a poorer painter. Are 
there such women nowadays? Bah! I have not known 
them. We used to meet at churches and exchange two 
words while her maid was gone to get her a chair. Oh, 
the good old time! And then the separations — the 
taking of Borne, when the old Princess carried all the 
family off to England and stayed there while we were 
fighting for poor France — and the coming back and the 
months of waiting, and the notes dropped from her 
window at midnight and the great quarrel with her 
family when we took advantage of the new law. And 
then the marriage itself — what a scandal in Borne ! But 
for the Princess, your mother, I do not know what we 
should have done. She brought Faustina to the church 
and drove us to the station in her own carriage — in the 
face of society. They say that Ascanio Bellegra hung 
about the door of the church while we were being 
married, but he had not the courage to come in, for fear 
of his mother. We went to Naples and lived on salad 
and love — and we had very little else for a year or 


DOST ORSItfO. 


25 


two. I was not much known, then, except in Eome, 
and Eoman society refused to have its portrait painted 
by the adventurer who had run away with a daughter of 
Casa Montevarchi. Perhaps, if we had been rich, we 
should have hated each other by this time. But we had 
to live for each other in those days, for every one was 
against us. I painted, and she kept house — that Eng- 
lish blood is always practical in a desert. And it was a 
desert. The cooking — it would have made a billiard 
ball’s hair stand on end with astonishment. She made 
the salad, and then evolved the roast from the inner 
consciousness. I painted a chaudfroid on an old plate. 
It was well done — the transparent quality of the jelly 
and the delicate ortolans imprisoned within, imploring 
dissection. Well, must I tell you? We threw it away. 
It was martyrdom. Saint Anthony’s position was envi- 
able compared with ours. Beside us that good man 
would have seemed but a humbug. Yet we lived 
through it all. I repeat it. We lived, and we were 
happy. It is amazing, how a man may love his wife.” 

Anastase had told his story with many pauses, work- 
ing hard while he spoke, for though he was quite in 
earnest in all he said, his chief object was to distract 
the young man’s attention, so as to bring out his natural 
expression. Having exhausted one of the colours he 
needed, he drew back and contemplated his work. 
Orsino seemed lost in thought. 

“ What are you thinking about?” asked the painter. 

“Do you think I am too old to become an artist?” 
enquired the young man. 

“ You? Who knows? But the times are too old. It 
is the same thing.” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“ You are in love with the life — not with the profes- 
sion. But the life is not the same now, nor the art 
either. Bah! In a few years I shall be out of fashion. 
I know it. Then we will go back to first principles. A 
garret to live in, bread and salad for dinner. Of course 


26 


DOK ORSINO. 


— what do you expect? That need not prevent us from 
living in a palace as long as we can.” 

Thereupon Anastase Gouache hummed a very lively 
little song as he squeezed a few colours from the tubes. 
Orsino’s face betrayed his discontentment. 

“ I was not in earnest, ” he said. “ At least, not as to 
becoming an artist. I only asked the question to be sure 
that you would answer it just as everybody answers all 
questions of the kind — by discouraging my wish do any- 
thing for myself.” 

“ Why should you do anything? You are so rich! ” 

“ What everybody says ! Do you know what we rich 
men, or we men who are to be rich, are expected to be? 
Farmers. It is not gay.” 

“ It would be my dream — pastoral, you know — Nor- 
mandy cows, a river with reeds, perpetual Angelus, 
bread and milk for supper. I adore milk. A nymph here 
and there — at your age, it is permitted. My dear 
friend, why not be a farmer? ” 

Orsino laughed a little, in spite of himself. 

“ I suppose that is an artist’s idea of farming.” 

“ As near the truth as a farmer’s idea of art, I dare- 
say,” retorted Gouache. 

“We see you paint, but you never see us at work. 
That is the difference — but that is not the question. 
Whatever I propose, I get the same answer. I imagine 
you will permit me to dislike farming as a profession.” 

“For the sake of argument, only,” said Gouache 
gravely. 

“Good. For the sake of argument. We will suppose 
that I am myself in all respects what I am, excepting 
that I am never to have any land, and only enough 
money to buy cigarettes. I say, ‘Let me take a profes- 
sion. Let me be a soldier.’ Every one rises up and 
protests against the idea of a Saracinesca serving in the 
Italian army. Why? ‘Femember that your father 
was a volunteer officer under Pope Pius Ninth.’ It is 
comic. He spent an afternoon on the Pincio for his 


DON OKSINO. 


27 


convictions, and then retired into private life. ‘Let 
me serve in a foreign army — France, Austria, Russia, I 
do not care/ They are more horrified than ever. ‘You 
have not a spark of patriotism! To serve a foreign 
power! How dreadful! And as for the Russians, they 
are all heretics/ Perhaps they are. I will try diplo- 
macy. ‘What? Sacrifice your convictions? Become 
the blind instrument of a scheming, dishonest ministry? 
It is unworthy of a Saracinesca ! ’ I will think no more 
about it. Let me be a lawyer and enter public life. ‘A 
lawyer indeed! Will you wrangle in public with nota- 
ries’ sons, defend murderers and burglars, and take fees 
like the old men who write letters for the peasants under 
a green umbrella in the street? It would be almost bet- 
ter to turn musician and give concerts/ ‘ The Church, 
perhaps?’ I suggest. ‘The Church? Are you not the 
heir, and will you not be the head of the family some 
day? You must be mad/ ‘Then give me a sum of 
money and let me try my luck with my cousin San 
Giacinto.’ ‘Business? If you make money it is a 
degradation, and with these new laws you cannot afford 
to lose it. Besides, you will have enough of business 
when you have to manage your estates.’ So all my 
questions are answered, and I am condemned at twenty 
to be a farmer for my natural life. I say so. ‘A 
farmer, forsooth! Have you not the world before you? 
Have you not received the most liberal education? Are 
you not rich? How can you take such a narrow view! 
Come out to the Villa and look at those young thorough- 
breds, and afterwards we will drop in at the club before 
dinner. Then there is that reception at the old Princi- 
pessa Befana’s to-night, and the Duchessa della Seccatura 
is also at home.’ That is my life, Monsieur Gouache. 
There you have the question, the answer and the result. 
Admit that it is. not gay.” 

“It is very serious, on the contrary,” answered 
Gouache who had listened to the detached Jeremiad 
with more curiosity and interest than he often shewed. 


28 


DON ORSINO. 


“ I see nothing for it, but for you to fall in love without 
losing a single moment.” 

Orsino laughed a little harshly. 

“I am in the humour, I assure you,” he answered. 

“Well, then — what are you waiting for?” enquired 
Gouache, looking at him. 

“What for? For an object for my affections, of 
course. That is rather necessary under the circum- 
stances.” 

“You may not wait long, if you will consent to stay 
here another quarter of an hour,” said Anastase with a 
laugh. “A lady is coming, whose portrait I am paint- 
ing — an interesting woman — tolerably beautiful — rather 
mysterious — here she is, you can have a good look at 
her, before you make up your mind.” 

Anastase took the half-finished portrait of Orsino from 
the easel and put another in its place, considerably 
further advanced in execution. Orsino lit a cigarette in 
order to quicken his judgment, and looked at the canvas. 

The picture was decidedly striking and one felt at once 
that it must be a good likeness. Gouache was evidently 
proud of it. It represented a woman, who was certainly 
not yet thirty years of age, in full dress, seated in a 
high, carved chair against a warm, dark background. 
A mantle of some sort of heavy, claret-coloured brocade, 
lined with fur, was draped across one of the beautiful 
shoulders, leaving the other bare, the scant dress of the 
period scarcely breaking the graceful lines from the throat 
to the soft white hand, of which the pointed fingers hung 
carelessly over the carved extremity of the arm of the 
chair. The lady’s hair was auburn, her eyes distinctly 
yellow. The face was an unusual one and not without 
attraction, very pale, with a full red mouth too wide for 
perfect beauty, but well modelled — almost too well, 
Gouache thought. The nose was of no distinct type, 
and was the least significant feature in the face, but the 
forehead was broad and massive, the chin soft, promi- 
nent and round, the brows much arched and divided by 


DON ORSINO. 


29 


a vertical shadow which, in the original, might be the 
first indication of a tiny wrinkle. Orsino fancied that 
one eye or the other wandered a very little, but he could 
not tell which — the slight defect made the glance dis- 
quieting and yet attractive. Altogether it was one of 
those faces which to one man say too little, and to another 
too much. 

Orsino affected to gaze upon the portrait with uncon- 
cern, but in reality he was oddly fascinated by it, and 
Gouache did not fail to see the truth. 

“You had better go away, my friend/’ he said, with a 
smile. “ She will be here in a few minutes and you will 
certainly lose your heart if you see her.” 

“What is her name?” asked Orsino, paying no atten- 
tion to the remark. 

“ Donna Maria Consuelo — something or other — a string 
of names ending in Aragona. I call her Madame 
d’ Aragona for shortness, and she does not seem to 
object.” 

“ Married? And Spanish?” 

“ I suppose so,” answered Gouache. “ A widow I be- 
lieve. She is not Italian and not French, so she must 
be Spanish.” 

“The name does not say much. Many people put 
‘d’ Aragona’ after their names — some cousins of ours, 
among others — they are Aranjuez d’ Aragona — my 
father’s mother was of that family.” 

“ I think that is the name — Aranjuez. Indeed I am 
sure of it, for Faustina remarked that she might be re- 
lated to you.” 

“ It is odd. We have not heard of her being in Eome 
— and I am not sure who she is. Has she been here 
long?” 

“ I have known her a month — since she first came to 
my studio. She lives in a hotel, and she comes alone, 
except when I need the dress and then she brings her 
maid, an odd creature who never speaks and seems to 
understand no known language.” 


30 


DON ORSINO. 


“It is an interesting face. Do yon mind if I stay till 
she comes? We may really be cousins, you know.” 

“ By all means — you can ask her. The relationship 
would be with her husband, I suppose.” 

“True. I had not thought of that; and he is dead, 
you say? ” 

Gouache did not answer, for at that moment the lady’s 
footfall was heard upon the marble floor, soft, quick 
and decided. She paused a moment in the middle of 
the room when she saw that the artist was not alone. 
He went forward to meet her and asked leave to present 
Orsino, with that polite indistinctness which leaves to 
the persons introduced the task of discovering one 
another’s names. 

Orsino looked into the lady’s eyes and saw that the 
slight peculiarity of the glance was real and not due to 
any error of Gouache’s drawing. He recognised each 
feature in turn in the one look he gave at the face be- 
fore he bowed, and he saw that the portrait was indeed 
very good. He was not subject to shyness. 

“We should be cousins, Madame,” he said. “My 
father’s mother was an Aranjuez d’Aragona.” 

“Indeed?” said the lady with calm indifference, look- 
ing critically at the picture of herself. 

“I am Orsino Saracinesca, ” said the young man, 
watching her with some admiration. 

“ Indeed? ” she repeated, a shade less coldly. “ I think 
I have heard my poor husband say that he was connected 
with your family. What do you think of my portrait? 
Every one has tried to paint me and failed, but my 
friend Monsieur Gouache is succeeding. He has repro- 
duced my hideous nose and my dreadful mouth with a 
masterly exactness. No — my dear Monsieur Gouache — 
it is a compliment I pay you. I am in earnest. I do 
not want a portrait of the Venus of Milo with red hair, 
nor of the Minerva Medica with yellow eyes, nor of an 
imaginary Medea in a fur cloak. I want myself, just as 
I am. That is exactly what you are doing for me. My- 


DON ORSINO. 


31 


self and I have lived so long together that I desire a lit- 
tle memento of the acquaintance.” 

“ You can afford to speak lightly of what is so precious 
to others,” said Gouache, gallantly. Madame d’Aranjuez 
sank into the carved chair Orsino had occupied. 

“This dear Gouache — he is charming, is he not?” 
she said with a little laugh. Orsino looked at her. 

“ Gouache is right, ” he thought, with the assurance of 
his years. “ It would be amusing to fall in love with 
her.” 


CHAPTER III. 

Gouache was far more interested in his work than in the 
opinions which his two visitors might entertain of each 
other. He looked at the lady fixedly, moved his easel, 
raised the picture a few inches higher from the ground 
and looked again. Orsino watched the proceedings from 
a little distance, debating whether he should go away or 
remain. Much depended upon Madame d’Aragona’s 
character, he thought, and of this he knew nothing. 
Some women are attracted by indifference, and to go 
away would be to show a disinclination to press the ac- 
quaintance. Others, he reflected, prefer the assurance 
of the man who always stays, even without an invitation, 
rather than lose his chance. On the other hand a sit- 
ting in a studio is not exactly like a meeting in a draw- 
ing-room. The painter has a sort of traditional, 
exclusive right to his sitter’s sole attention. The sitter, 
too, if a woman, enjoys the privilege of sacrificing one- 
half her good looks in a bad light, to favour the other 
side which is presented to the artist’s view, and the third 
person, if there be one, has a provoking habit of so plac- 
ing himself as to receive the least flattering impression. 


32 


DON ORSINO. 


Hence the great unpopularity of the third person — or 
“the third inconvenience,” as the Romans call him. 

Orsino stood, still for a few moments, wondering 
whether either of the two would ask him to sit down. 
As they did not, he was annoyed with them and deter- 
mined to stay, if only for five minutes. He took up his 
position in a deep seat under the high window, and 
watched Madame d’Aragona’s profile. Neither she nor 
Gouache made any remark. Gouache began to brush 
over the face of his picture. Orsino felt that the silence 
was becoming awkward. He began to regret that he had 
remained, for he discovered from his present position 
that the lady’s nose was indeed her defective feature. 

“You do not mind my staying a few minutes?” he 
said, with a vague interrogation. 

“Ask Madame, rather,” answered Gouache, brushing 
away in a lively manner. Madame said nothing, and 
seemed not to have heard. 

“Am I indiscreet?” asked Orsino. 

“How? No. Why should you not remain? Only, 
if you please, sit where I can see you. Thanks. I do 
not like to feel that some one is looking at me and that 
I cannot look at him, if I please — and as for me, I am 
nailed in my position. How can I turn my head? 
Gouache is very severe.” 

“You may have heard, Madame, that a beautiful 
woman is most beautiful in repose,” said Gouache. 

Orsino was annoyed, for he had of course wished to 
make exactly the same remark. But they were talking 
in French, and the Frenchman had the advantage of 
speed. 

“And how about an ugly woman?” asked Madame 
d’Aragona. 

“Motion is most becoming to her — rapid motion — 
towards the door,” answered the artist. 

Orsino had changed his position and was standing 
behind Gouache. 

“ I wish you would sit down, ” said the latter, after a 


DON ORSINO. 


33 


short pause. “I do not like to feel that any one is 
standing behind me when I am at work. It is a weak- 
ness, but I cannot help it. Do you believe in mental 
suggestion, Madame?” 

“What is that?” asked Madame d’Aragona vaguely. 

“ I always imagine that a person standing behind me 
when I am at work is making me see everything as he 
sees, ” answered Gouache, not attempting to answer the 
question. 

Orsino, driven from pillar to post, had again moved 
away. 

“ And do you believe in such absurd superstitions?” 
enquired Madame d’Aragona with a contemptuous curl 
of her heavy lips. “ Monsieur de Saracinesca, will you 
not sit down? You make me a little nervous.” 

Gouache raised his finely marked eyebrows almost im- 
perceptibly at the odd form of address, which betrayed 
ignorance either of worldly usage or else of Orsino’s 
individuality. He stepped back from the canvas and 
moved a chair forward. 

“Sit here, Prince,” he said. “Madame can see you,^ 
and you will not be behind me.” 

Orsino took the proffered seat without any remark. 
Madame* d’Aragona’s expression did not change, though 
she was perfectly well aware that Gouache had intended 
to correct her manner of addressing the young man. 
The latter was slightly annoyed. What difference could 
it make? It was tactless of Gouache, he thought, for 
the lady might be angry. 

“Are you spending the winter in Pome, Madame?” he 
asked. He was conscious that the question lacked 
originality, but no other presented itself to him. 

“ The winter? ” repeated Madame d’Aragona dreamily. 
“Who knows? I am here at present, at the mercy of 
the great painter. That is all I know. Shall I be here 
next month, next week? I cannot tell. I know no one. 

I have never been here before. It is dull. This was 
my object, ” she added, after a short pause. “ When it 

n 



34 


DON ORSINO. 


is accomplished I will consider other matters. I may be 
obliged to accompany their Royal Highnesses to Egypt 
in January. That is next month, is it not?” 

It was so very far from clear who the royal highnesses 
in question might be, that Orsino glanced at Gouache, to 
see whether he understood. But Gouache was imper- 
turbable. 

“ January, Madame, follows December,” he answered. 
“ The fact is confirmed by the observations of many cen- 
turies. Even in my own experience it has occurred 
forty-seven times in succession.” 

Orsino laughed a little, and as Madame d’Aragona’s 
eyes met his, the red lips smiled, without parting. 

“He is always laughing at me,” she said pleasantly. 

Gouache was painting with great alacrity. The smile 
was becoming to her and he caught it as it passed. It 
must be allowed that she permitted it to linger, as though 
she understood his wish, but as she was looking at 
Orsino, he was pleased. 

“If you will permit me to say it, Madame,” he ob- 
served, “I have never seen eyes like yours.” 

He endeavoured to lose himself in their depths as he 
spoke. Madame d J Aragona was not in the least annoyed 
by the remark, nor by the look. 

“What is there so very unusual about my eyes?” she 
enquired. The smile grew a little more faint and 
thoughtful but did not disappear. 

“ In the first place, I have never seen eyes of a golden- 
yellow colour.” 

“Tigers have yellow eyes,” observed Madame d ? Ara- 
gona. 

“ My acquaintance with that animal is at second hand 
— slight, to say the least.” 

“You have never shot one?” 

“Never, Madame. They do not abound in Rome — nor 
even, I believe, in Albano. My father killed one when 
he was a young man. ” 

“ Prince Saracinesca? ” 


DON ORSINO. 


35 


“Sant* Ilario. My grandfather is still alive.” 

“How splendid! I adore strong races.” 

“It is very interesting,” observed Gouache, poking 
the stick of a brush into the eye of his picture. “I have 
painted three generations of the family, I who speak to 
you, and I hope to paint the fourth if Don Orsino here 
can be cured of his cynicism and induced to marry Donna 
— what is her name? ” He turned to the young man. 

“ She has none — and she is likely to remain nameless,” 
answered Orsino gloomily. 

“We will call her Donna Ignota,” suggested Madame 
d’Aragona. 

“And build altars to the unknown love,” added 
Gouache. 

Madame d’Aragona smiled faintly, but Orsino per- 
sisted in looking grave. 

“It seems to be an unpleasant subject, Prince.” 

“Very unpleasant, Madame,” answered Orsino shortly. 

Thereupon Madame d’Aragona looked at Gouache and 
raised her brows a little as though to ask a question, 
knowing perfectly well that Orsino was watching her. 
The young man could not see the painter’s eyes, and the 
latter did not betray by any gesture that he was answer- 
ing the silent interrogation. 

“ Then I have eyes like a tiger, you say. You frighten 
me. How disagreeable — to look like a wild beast ! ” 

“It is a prejudice,” returned Orsino. “One hears 
people say of a woman that she is beautiful as a tigress.” 

“ An idea ! ” exclaimed Gouache, interrupting. “ Shall 
I change the damask cloak to a tiger’s skin? One claw 
just hanging over the white shoulder — Omphale, you 
know — in a modern drawing-room — a small cast of the 
Parnese Hercules upon a bracket, there, on the right. 
Decidedly, here is an idea. Do you permit, Madame ! ” 

“Anything you like — only do not spoil the likeness,” 
answered Madame d’Aragona, leaning back in her chair, 
and looking sleepily at Orsino from beneath her heavy, 
half-closed lids. 


36 


DON ORSINO. 


“ You will spoil the whole picture,” said Orsino, rather 
anxiously. 

Gouache laughed. 

“ What harm if I do? I can restore it in five 
minutes ” 

“ Five minutes ! ” 

“An hour, if you insist upon accuracy of statement,” 
replied Gouache with a shade of annoyance. 

He had an idea, and like most people whom fate occa- 
sionally favours with that rare commodity he did not like 
to be disturbed in the realisation of it. He was already 
squeezing out quantities of tawny colours upon his 
palette. 

“ I am a passive instrument,” said Madame d’Aragona. 
“He does what he pleases. These men of genius — what 
would you have? Yesterday a gown from Worth — to- 
day a tiger’s skin — indeed, I tremble for to-morrow.” 

She laughed a little and turned her head away. 

“You need not fear,” answered Gouache, daubing in 
his new idea with an enormous brush. “Fashions 
change. Woman endures. Beauty is eternal. There is 
nothing which may not be made becoming to a beautiful 
woman.” 

“My dear Gouache, you are insufferable. You are 
always telling me that I am beautiful. Look at my 
nose.” 

“Yes. I am looking at it.” 

“And my mouth.” 

“ I look. I see. I admire. Have you any other per- 
sonal observations to make? How many claws has a 
tiger, Don Orsino? Quick! I am painting the thing.” 

“One less than a woman.” 

Madame d’Aragona looked at the young man a moment, 
and broke into a laugh. 

“ There is a charming speech. I like that better than 
Gouache’s flattery.” 

“And yet you admit that the portrait is like you,” said 
Gouache. 


don orsino. 


37 


“ Perhaps I flatter you, too.” 

“Ah! I had not thought of that.” 

“You should be more modest.” 

“I lose myself ” 

“Where?” 

“In your eyes, Madame. One, two, three, four — are 
you sure a tiger has only four claws? Where is the creat- 
ure’s thumb — what do you call it? It looks awkward.” 

“The dew-claw?” asked Orsino. “It is higher up, 
behind the paw. You w’ould hardly see it in the skin.” 

“But a cat has five claws,” said Madame d’Aragona. 
“Is not a tiger a cat? We must have the thing right, 
you know, if it is to be done at all.” 

“Has a cat five claws?” asked Anastase, appealing 
anxiously to Orsino. 

“Of course, but you would only see four on the skin.” 

“I insist upon knowing,” said Madame d’Aragona. 
“This is dreadful! Has no one got a tiger? What sort 
of studio is this — with no tiger ! ” 

“I am not Sarah Bernhardt, nor the emperor of Siam,” 
observed Gouache, with a laugh. 

But Madame d’Aragona was not satisfied. 

“ I am sure you could procure me one, Prince, ” she 
said, turning to Orsino. “ I am sure you could, if you 
would! I shall cry if I do not have one, and it will be 
your fault.” 

“Would you like the animal alive or dead?” inquired 
Orsino gravely, and he rose from his seat. 

“ Ah, I knew you could procure the thing ! ” she ex- 
claimed with grateful enthusiasm. “Alive or dead, 
Gouache? Quick — decide!” 

“ As you please, Madame. If you decide to have him 
alive, I will ask permission to exchange a few words 
with my wife and children, while some one goes for a 
priest.” 

“You are sublime, to-day. Dead, then, if you please, 
Prince. Quite dead — but do not say that I was 
afraid ” 


38 


DON ORSINO. 


“Afraid? With a Saracinesca and a Gouache to de- 
fend your life, Madame? You are not serious.” 

Orsino took his hat. 

“I shall be back in a quarter of an hour,” he said, as 
he bowed and went out. 

Madame d’Aragona watched his tall young figure till 
he disappeared. 

“He does not lack spirit, your young friend,” she 
observed. 

“No member of that family ever did, I think,” 
Gouache answered. “They are a remarkable race.” 

“And he is the only son?” 

“Oh no! He has three younger brothers.” 

“Poor fellow! I suppose the fortune is not very 
large.” 

“I have no means of knowing,” replied Gouache in- 
differently. “ Their palace is historic. Their equipages 
are magnificent. That is all that foreigners see of 
Boman families.” 

“But you know them intimately?” 

“ Intimately — that is saying too much. I have painted 
their portraits.” 

Madame d’Aragona wondered why he was so reticent, 
for she knew that he had himself married the daughter 
of a Boman prince, and she concluded that he must know 
much of the Bomans. 

“Do you think he will bring the tiger?” she asked 
presently. 

“ He is quite capable of bringing a whole menagerie of 
tigers for you to choose from.” 

“ How interesting. I like men who stop at nothing. 
It was really unpardonable of you to suggest the idea 
and then to tell me calmly that you had no model for it. ” 

In the meantime Orsino had descended the stairs and 
was hailing a passing cab. He debated for a moment 
what he should do. It chanced that at that time there 
was actually a collection of wild beasts to be seen in the 
Prati di Castello, and Orsino supposed that the owner 


DON ORSINO. 


39 


might be induced, for a large consideration, to part with 
one of his tigers. He even imagined that he might 
shoot the beast and bring it back in the cab. But, in 
the first place, he was not provided with an adequate 
sum of money nor did he know exactly how to lay his 
hand on so large a sum as might be necessary, at a 
moment’s notice. He was still under age, and his allow- 
ance had not been calculated with a view to his buying 
menageries. Moreover he considered that even if his 
pockets had been full of bank notes, the idea was ridicu- 
lous, and he was rather ashamed of his youthful impulse. 
It occurred to him that what was necessary for the pic- 
ture was not the carcase of the tiger but the skin, and 
he remembered that such a skin lay on the floor in his 
father’s private room — the spoil of the animal Giovanni 
Saracinesca had shot in his youth. It had been well 
cared for and was a fine specimen. 

“ Palazzo Saracinesca, ” he said to the cabman. 

How it chanced, as such things will chance in the in- 
scrutable ways of fate, that Sant’ Ilario was just then 
in that very room and busy with his correspondence. 
Orsino had hoped to carry off what he wanted, without 
being questioned, in order to save time, but he now found 
himself obliged to explain his errand. 

Sant’ Ilario looked up in some surprise as his son 
entered. 

“Well, Orsino? Is anything the matter?” he asked. 

“Nothing serious, father. I want to borrow your 
tiger’s skin for Gouache. Will you lend it to me?” 

“Of course. But what in the world does Gouache 
want of it? Is he painting you in skins — the primeval 
youth of the forest?” 

“Ho — not exactly. The fact is, there is a lady there. 
Gouache talks of painting her as a modern Omphale, 
with a tiger’s skin and a cast of Hercules in the back- 
ground ” 

“ Hercules wore a lion’s skin — not a tiger’s. He killed 
the Nemean lion.” 


40 


DON OBSINO. 


“ Did he?” inquired Orsino indifferently. “It is all 
the same — they do not know it, and they want a tiger. 
When I left they were debating whether they wanted it 
alive or dead. I thought of buying one at the Prati di 
Castello, but it seemed cheaper to borrow the skin of 
you. May I take it?” 

Sant’ Ilario laughed. Orsino rolled up the great hidq 
and carried it to the door. 

“Who is the lady, my boy?” 

“I never saw her before — a certain Donna Maria 
d’Aranjuez d’Aragona. 1 fancy she must be a kind of 
cousin. Do you know anything about her? ” 

“I never heard of such a person. Is that her own 
name?” 

“No — she seems to be somebody’s widow.” 

“That is definite. What is she like?” 

“Passably handsome — yellow eyes, reddish hair, one 
eye wanders.” 

“What an awful picture! Do not fall in love with 
her, Orsino.” 

“No fear of that — but she is amusing, and she wants 
the tiger.” 

“You seem to be in a hurry,” observed Sant’ Ilario, 
considerably amused. 

“Naturally. They are waiting for me.” 

“Well, go as fast as you can — never keep a woman 
waiting. By the way, bring the skin back. I would 
rather you bought twenty live tigers at the Prati than 
lose that old thing.” 

Orsino promised and was soon in his cab on the way to 
Gouache’s studio, having the skin rolled up on his knees, 
the head hanging out on one side and the tail on the 
other, to the infinite interest of the people in the street. 
He was just congratulating himself on having wasted so 
little time in conversation with his father, when the 
figure of a tall woman walking towards him on the pave- 
ment, arrested his attention. His cab must pass close by 
her, and there was no mistaking his mother at a hundred 


DOH ORSINO. 


41 


yards’ distance. She saw him too and made a sign with 
her parasol for him to stop. 

“ Good-morning, Orsino,” said the sweet deep voice. 

“ Good-morning, mother/’ he answered, as he descended 
hat in hand, and kissed the gloved fingers she extended 
to him. 

He conld not help thinking, as he looked at her, that 
she was infinitely more beautiful even now than Madame 
d’Aragona. As for Corona, it seemed to her that there 
was no man on earth to compare with her eldest son, 
except Giovanni himself, and there all comparison 
ceased. Their eyes met affectionately and it would have 
been hard to say which was the more proud of the other, 
the son of his mother, or the mother of her son. Never- 
theless Orsino was in a hurry. Anticipating all ques- 
tions he told her in as few words as possible the nature 
of his errand, the object of the tiger’s skin, and the name 
of the lady who was sitting to Gouache. 

“It is strange,” said Corona. “I have never heard 
your father speak of her. ” 

“ He has never heard of her either. He just told me 
so.” 

“ I have almost enough curiosity to get into your cab 
and go with you.” 

“Do, mother.” There was not much enthusiasm in 
the answer. 

Corona looked at him, smiled, and shook her head. 

“Foolish boy! Did you think I was in earnest? I 
should only spoil your amusement in the studio, and the 
lady would see that I had come to inspect her. Two 
good reasons — but the first is the better, dear. Go — do 
not keep them waiting.” 

“Will you not take my cab? I can get another.” 

“No. I am in no hurry. Good-bye.” 

And nodding to him with an affectionate smile, Corona 
passed on, leaving Orsino free at last to carry the skin 
to its destination. 

When he entered the studio he found Madame d’Ara- 


42 


DON ORSINO. 


gona absorbed in the contemplation of a piece of old 
tapestry which hung opposite to her, while Gouache was 
drawing in a tiny Hercules, high up in the right hand 
corner of the picture, as he had proposed. The conver- 
sation seemed to have languished, and Orsino was im- 
mediately conscious that the atmosphere had changed 
since he had left. He unrolled the skin as he entered, 
and Madame d’Aragona looked at it critically. She saw 
that the tawny colours would become her in the portrait 
and her expression grew more animated. 

“It is really very good of you,” she said, with a grate- 
ful glance. 

“I have a disappointment in store for you,” answered 
Orsino. “My father says that Hercules wore a lion’s, 
skin. He is quite right, I remember all about it.” 

“Of course,” said Gouache. “How could we make 
such a mistake ! ” 

He dropped the bit of chalk he held and looked at 
Madame d’Aragona. 

“What difference does it make?” asked the latter. 
“A lion — a tiger! I am sure they are very much alike.” 

“After all, it is a tiresome idea,” said the painter. 
“You will be much better in the damask cloak. Besides, 
with the lion’s skin you should have the club — imagine 
a club in your hands ! And Hercules should be spinning 
at your feet — a man in a black coat and a high collar, 
with a distaff! It is an absurd idea.” 

“You should not call my ideas absurd and tiresome. 
It is not civil.” 

“I thought it had been mine,” observed Gouache. 

“Not at all. I thought of it — it was quite original.” 

Gouache laughed a little and looked at Orsino as 
though asking his opinion. 

“ Madame is right, ” said the latter. “ She suggested 
the whole idea — by having yellow eyes.” 

“ You see, Gouache. I told you so. The Prince takes 
my view. What will you do? ” 

“ Whatever you command ” 


DON ORSINO. 


48 


“ But I do not want to be ridiculous ” 

“ I do not see ” 

“ And yet I must have the tiger.” 

“ I am ready.” 

“ Doubtless — but you must think of another subject, 
with a tiger in it.” 

“■Nothing easier. Noble Roman damsel — Colosseum 
— tiger about to spring — rose ” 

“Just heaven! What an old story! Besides, I have 
not the type.” 

“The ‘ Mysteries of Dionysus, ’” suggested Gouache. 
“Thyrsus, leopard’s skin ” 

“ A Bacchante ! Die, Monsieur — and then, the leopard, 
when we only have a tiger.” 

“ Indian princess interviewed by a man-eater — jungle 
— new moon — tropical vegetation ” 

“You can think of nothing but subjects for a dark 
type,” said Madame d’Aragona impatiently. 

“ The fact is, in countries where the tiger walks abroad, 
the women are generally brunettes.” 

“ I hate facts. You who are enthusiastic, can you not 
help us?” She turned to Orsino. 

“Am I enthusiastic?” 

“Yes, I am sure of it. Think of something.” 

Orsino was not pleased. He would have preferred to 
be thought cold and impassive. 

“What can I say? The first idea was the best. Get a 
lion instead of a tiger — nothing is simpler.” 

“ For my part I prefer the damask cloak and the original 
picture,” said Gouache with decision. “All this my- 
thology is too complicated — too Pompeian — how shall I 
say? Besides there is no distinct allusion. A Hercules 
on a bracket — anybody may have that. If you were the 
Marchessa di San Giacinto, for instance — oh, then every- 
one would laugh.” 

“Why? What is that?” 

“She married my cousin,” said Orsino. “He is an 
enormous giant, and they say that she has tamed him.” 


44 


DON ORSINO. 


“ All no ! That would not do. Something else, please.” 

Orsino involuntarily thought of a sphynx as he looked 
at the massive brow, the yellow, sleepy eyes, and the 
heavy mouth. He wondered how the late Aranjuez had 
lived and what death he had died. 

He offered the suggestion. 

“ It would be appropriate,” replied Madame d’Aragona. 
“The Sphynx in the Desert. Eome is a desert to me.” 

“ It only depends on you ” Orsino began. 

“Oh, of course! To make acquaintances, to show 
myself a little everywhere — it is simple enough. But it 
wearies me — until one is caught up in the machinery, 
a toothed wheel going round with the rest, one only bores 
oneself, and I may leave so soon. Decidedly it is not 
worth the trouble. Is it?” 

She turned her eyes to Orsino as though asking his 
advice. Orsino laughed. 

“ How can you ask that question ! ” he exclaimed. 
“Only let the trouble be ours.” 

“Ah! I said you were enthusiastic.” She shook her 
head, and rose from her seat. “ It is time for me to go. 
We have done nothing this morning, and it is all your 
fault, Prince.” 

“ I am distressed — I will not intrude upon your next 
sitting.” 

“ Oh — as far as that is concerned ” She did not 

finish the sentence, but took up the neglected tiger’s 
skin from the chair on which it lay. 

She threw it over her shoulders, bringing the grinning 
head over her hair and holding the forepaws in her 
pointed white fingers. She came very near to Gouache 
and looked into his eyes, her closed lips smiling. 

“Admirable!” exclaimed Gouache. “It is impossi- 
ble to tell where the woman ends and the tiger begins. 
Let me draw you like that.” 

“ Oh no! Not for anything in the world.” 

She turned away quickly and dropped the skin from 
her shoulders. 


DON ORSINO. 


45 


“You* will not stay a little longer? You will not let 
me try?” Gouache seemed disappointed. 

“Impossible,” she answered, putting on her hat and 
beginning to arrange her veil before a mirror. 

Orsino watched her as she stood, her arms uplifted, in 
an attitude which is almost always graceful, even for an 
otherwise ungraceful woman. Madame d’Aragona was 
perhaps a little too short, but she was justly proportioned 
and appeared to be rather slight, though the tight-fitting 
sleeves of her frock betrayed a remarkably well turned 
arm. Not seeing her face, one might not have singled 
her out of many as a very striking woman, for she had 
neither the stateliness of Orsino’s mother, nor the en- 
chanting grace which distinguished Gouache’s wife. 
But no one could look into her eyes without feeling that 
she was very far from being an ordinary woman. 

“Quite impossible,” she repeated, as she tucked in the 
ends of her veil and then turned upon the two men. 
“The next sitting? Whenever you like — to-morrow — 
the day after — name the time.” 

“When to-morrow is possible, there is no choice,” 
said Gouache, “unless you will come again to-day.” 

“ To-morrow, then, good-bye.” She held out her hand. 

“ There are sketches on each of my fingers, Madame 
— principally of tigers.” 

“Good-bye then — consider your hand shaken. Are 
you going, Prince?” 

Orsino had taken his hat and was standing beside her. 

“You will allow me to put you into your carriage.” 

“I shall walk.” 

“So much the better. Good-bye, Monsieur Gouache.” 

“Why say, Monsieur?” 

“As you like — you are older than I.” 

“I? Who has told you that legend? It is only a 
myth. When you are sixty years old, I shall still be 
five-and-twenty . ” 

“And I?” enquired Madame d’Aragona, who was still 
young enough to laugh at age. 


46 


DON ORSINO. 


“As old as you were yesterday, not a day older.” 

“Why not^ay to-day?” 

“ Because to-day has a to-morrow — yesterday has none.” 

“You are delicious, my dear Gouache. Good-bye.” 

Madame d’Aragona went out with Orsino, and they 
descended the broad staircase together. Orsino was not 
sure whether he might not be showing too much anxiety 
to remain in the company of his new acquaintance, and 
as he realised how unpleasant it would be to sacrifice 
the walk with her, he endeavoured to excuse to himself 
his derogation from his self-imposed character of cool 
superiority and indifference. She was very amusing, he 
said to himself, and he had nothing in the world to do. 
He never had anything to do, since his education had 
been completed. Why should he not walk with Madame 
d’Aragona and talk to her? It would be better than 
hanging about the club or reading a novel at home. The 
hounds did not meet on that day, or he would not have 
been at Gouache’s at all. But they were to meet to- 
morrow, and he would therefore not see Madame 
d’Aragona. 

“Gouache is an old friend of yours, I suppose,” ob- 
served the lady. 

“ He was a friend of my father’s. He is almost a 
Homan. He married a distant connection of mine, 
Donna Faustina Monte varchi.” 

“Ah yes — I have heard. He is a man of immense 
genius.” 

“ He is a man I envy with all my heart, ” said Orsino. 

“ You envy Gouache? I should not have thought ” 

“No? Ah, Madame, to me a man who has a career, 
a profession, an interest, is a god.” 

“I like that,” answered Madame d’Aragona. “But it 
seems to me you have your choice. You have the world 
before you. Write your name upon it. You do not lack 
enthusiasm. Is it the inspiration that you need?” 

“ Perhaps, ” said Orsino glancing meaningly at her as 
she looked at him. 

“ That is not new, ” thought she, “ but he is charming, 


DON ORSINO. 


47 


all the same. They say,” she added aloud, “that genius 
finds inspiration everywhere.” 

“Alas, I am not a genius. What I ask is an occupa- 
tion, and permanent interest. The thing is impossible, 
but I am not resigned.” 

“Before thirty everything is possible,” said Madame 
d’Aragona. She knew that the mere mention of so 
mature an age would be flattering to such a boy. 

“The objections are insurmountable,” replied Orsino. 

“What objections? Bemember that I do not know 
Borne, nor the Bomans.” 

“We are petrified in traditions. Spicca said the other 
day that there was but one hope for us. The Americans 
may yet discover Italy, as we once discovered America.” 

Madame d’Aragona smiled. 

“Who is Spicca?” she enquired, with a lazy glance at 
her companion’s face. 

“ Spicca? Surely you have heard of him. He used to 
be a famous duellist. He is our great wit. My father 
likes him very much — he is an odd character.” 

“ There will be all the more credit in succeeding, if 
you have to break through a barrier of tradition and prej- 
udice,” said Madame d’Aragona, reverting rather ab- 
ruptly to the first subject. 

“You do not know what that means.” Orsino shook 
his head incredulously. “You have never tried it.” 

“Ho. How could a woman be placed in such a posi- 
tion?” 

“That is just it. You cannot understand me.” 

“ That does not follow. Women often understand men 
— men they love or detest — better than men themselves.” 

“Do you love me, Madame?” asked Orsino with a 
smile. 

“I have just made your acquaintance,” laughed 
Madame d’Aragona. “It is a little too soon.” 

“But then, according to you, if you understand me, 
you detest me.” 

“Well? If I do?” She was still laughing. 

“Then I ought to disappear, I suppose.” 


48 


DON ORSINO. 


“ You do not understand women. Anything is better 
than indifference. When you see that you are disliked, 
then refuse to go away. It is the very moment to re- 
main. Do not submit to dislike. Revenge yourself.” 

“I will try,” said Orsino, considerably amused. 

“ Upon me?” 

“ Since you advise it ” 

“Have I said that I detest you?” 

“More or less.” 

“ It was only by way of illustration to my argument. 
I was not serious.” 

“You have not a serious character, I fancy,” said 
Orsino. 

“Do you dare to pass judgment on me after an hour’s 
acquaintance? ” 

“ Since you have judged me ! You have said five times 
that I am enthusiastic.” 

“ That is an exaggeration. Besides, one cannot say a 
true thing too often.” 

“ How you run on, Madame ! ” 

“ And you — to tell me to my face that I am not seri- 
ous! It is unheard of. Is that the way you talk to 
your compatriots ? ” 

“It would not be true. But they would contradict 
me, as you do. They wish to be thought gay.” 

“Do they? I would like to know them.” 

“Nothing is easier. Will you allow me the honour of 
undertaking the matter?” 

They had reached the door of Madame d’Aragona’s 
hotel. She stood still and looked curiously at Orsino. 

“Certainly not,” she answered, rather coldly. “It 
would be asking too much of you — too much of society, 
and far too much of me. Thanks. Good-bye.” 

“May I come and see you?” asked Orsino. 

He knew very well that he had gone too far, and his 
voice was correctly contrite. 

“ I daresay we shall meet somewhere, ” she answered, 
entering the hotel. 


DON ORSINO. 


49 


CHAPTER IV. 

The rage of speculation was at its height in Rome. 
Thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of persons 
were embarked in enterprises which soon afterwards 
ended in total ruin to themselves and in very serious 
injury to many of the strongest financial bodies in the 
country. Yet it is a fact worth recording that the gen- 
eral principle upon which affairs were conducted was an 
honest one. The land was a fact, the buildings put up 
were facts, and there was actually a certain amount of 
capital, of genuine ready money, in use. The whole 
matter can be explained in a few words. 

The population of Rome had increased considerably 
since the Italian occupation, and house-room was needed 
for the newcomers. Secondly, the partial execution of 
the scheme for beautifying the city had destroyed great 
numbers of dwellings in the most thickly populated 
parts, and more house-room was needed to compensate 
the loss of habitations, while extensive lots of land were 
suddenly set free and offered for sale upon easy condi- 
tions in all parts of the town. 

Those who availed themselves of these opportunities 
before the general rush began, realised immense profits, 
especially when they had some capital of their own to 
begin with. But capital was not indispensable. A man 
could buy his lot on credit; the banks were ready to 
advance him money on notes of hand, in small amounts 
at high interest, wherewith to build his house or 
houses. When the building was finished the bank took 
a first mortgage upon the property, the owner let the 
house, paid the interest on the mortgage out of the rent 
and pocketed the difference, as clear gain. In the 
majority of cases it was the bank itself which sold the 
lot of land to the speculator. It is clear therefore that 


E 


50 


DON ORSINO. 


the only money which actually changed hands was that 
advanced in small sums by the bank itself. 

As the speculation increased, the banks could not of 
course afford to lock up all the small notes of hand they 
received from various quarters. This paper became a 
circulating medium as far as Vienna, Paris and even 
London. The crash came when Vienna, Paris and Lon- 
don lost faith in the paper, owing, in the first instance, 
to one or two small failures, and returned it upon Rome ; 
the banks, unable to obtain cash for it at any price, and 
being short of ready money, could then no longer dis- 
count the speculator’s further notes of hand; so that the 
speculator found himself with half -built houses upon his 
hands which he could neither let, nor finish, nor sell, 
and owing money upon bills which he had expected to 
meet by giving the bank a mortgage on the now value- 
less property. 

That is what took place in the majority of cases, and 
it is not necessary to go into further details, though of 
course chance played all the usual variations upon the 
theme of ruin. 

What distinguishes the period of speculation in Rome 
from most other manifestations of the kind in Europe is 
the prominent part played in it by the old land-holding 
families, a number of which were ruined in wild schemes 
which no sensible man of business would have touched. 
This was more or less the result of recent changes in the 
laws regulating the power of persons making a will. 

Previous to 1870 the law of primogeniture was as much 
respected in Rome as in England, and was carried out 
with considerably greater strictness. The heir got every- 
thing, the other children got practically nothing but the 
smallest pittance. The palace, the gallery of pictures 
and statues, the lands, the villages and the castles, de- 
scended in unbroken succession from eldest son to eldest 
son, indivisible in principle and undivided in fact. 

The new law requires that one half of the total prop- 
erty shall be equally distributed by the testator amongst 


DON ORSINO. 


51 


all his children. He may leave the other half to any 
one he pleases, and as a matter of practice he of course 
leaves it to his eldest son. 

Another law, however, forbids the alienation of all 
collections of works of art either wholly or in part, if 
they have existed as such for a certain length of time, 
and if the public has been admitted daily or on any fixed 
days, to visit them. It is not in the power of the 
Borghese, or the Colonna, for instance, to sell a picture 
or a statue out of their galleries, nor to raise money 
upon such an object by mortgage or otherwise. 

Yet these works of art figure at a very high valuation 
in the total property of which the testator must divide 
one half amongst his children, though in point of fact 
they yield no income whatever. But it is of no use to 
divide them, since none of the heirs could be at liberty 
to take them away nor realise their value in any manner. 

The consequence is, that the principal heir, after the 
division has taken place, finds himself the nominal mas- 
ter of certain enormously valuable possessions, which in 
reality yield him nothing or next to nothing. He also 
foresees that in the next generation the same state of 
things will exist in a far higher degree, and that the 
position of the head of the family will go from bad to 
worse until a crisis of some kind takes place. 

Such a case has recently occurred. A certain Koman 
prince is bankrupt. The sale of his gallery would cer- 
tainly relieve the pressure, and would possibly free him 
from debt altogether. But neither he nor his creditors 
can lay a finger upon the pictures, nor raise a centime 
upon them. This man, therefore, is permanently reduced 
to penury, and his creditors are large losers, while he 
is still de jure and de facto the owner of property prob- 
ably sufficient to cover all his obligations. Fortunately, 
he chances to be childless, a fact consoling, perhaps, to 
the philanthropist, but not especially so to the sufferer 
himself. 

It is clear that the temptation to increase “ distributa- 


52 


DON ORSINO. 


ble” property, if one may coin such an expression, is 
very great, and accounts for the way in which many 
Roman gentlemen have rushed headlong into specula- 
tion, though possessing none of the qualities necessary 
for success, and only one of the requisites, namely, a 
certain amount of ready money, or free and convertible 
property. A few have been fortunate, while the majority 
of those who have tried the experiment have been heavy 
losers. It cannot be said that any one of them all has 
shown natural talent for finance. 

Let the reader forgive these dry explanations if he can. 
The facts explained have a direct bearing upon the story 
I am telling, but shall not, as mere facts, be referred to 
again. 

I have already said that Ugo Del Ferice had returned 
to Rome soon after the change, had established himself 
with his wife, Donna Tullia, and was at the time I am 
speaking about, deeply engaged in the speculations of 
the day. He had once been tolerably x>opular in societ}q 
having been looked upon as a harmless creature, useful 
in his way and very obliging. But the circumstances 
which had attended his flight some years earlier had be- 
come known, and most of his old acquaintances turned 
him the cold shoulder. He had expected this and was 
neither disappointed nor humiliated. He had made new 
friends and acquaintances during his exile, and it was to 
his interest to stand by them. Like many of those who 
had played petty and dishonourable parts in the revolu- 
tionary times, he had succeeded in building up a reputa- 
tion for patriotism upon a very slight foundation, and 
had found persons willing to believe him a sufferer who 
had escaped martyrdom for the cause, and had deserved 
the crown of election to a constituency as a just reward 
of his devotion. The Romans cared very little what 
became of him. The old Blacks confounded Victor 
Emmanuel with Garibaldi, Cavour with Persiano, and 
Silvio Pellico with Del Ferice in one sweeping condem- 
nation, desiring nothing so much as never to hear the 


DON ORSINO. 


53 


hated names mentioned in their houses. The Grey party, 
being also Roman, disapproved of Ugo on general prin- 
ciples and particularly because he had been a spy, but 
the Whites, not being Romans at all and entertaining an 
especial detestation for every distinctly Roman opinion, 
received him at his own estimation, as society receives 
most people who live in good houses, give good dinners 
and observe the proprieties in the matter of visiting- 
cards. Those who knew anything definite of the man’s 
antecedents were mostly persons who had little histories 
of their own, and they told no tales out of school. The 
great personages who had once employed him would 
have been magnanimous enough to acknowledge him in 
any case, but were agreeably disappointed when they 
discovered that he was not amongst the common herd of 
pension hunters, and claimed no substantial rewards save 
their politeness and a line in the visiting lists of their 
wives. And as he grew in wealth and importance they 
found that he could be useful still, as bank directors and 
members of parliament can be, in a thousand ways. So 
it came to pass that the Count and Countess Del Ferice 
became prominent persons in the Roman world. 

Ugo was a man of undoubted talent. By his own in- 
dividual efforts, though with small scruple as to the 
means he employed, he had raised himself from obscurity 
to a very enviable position. He had only once in his life 
been carried away by the weakness of a personal enmity, 
and he had been made to pay heavily for his caprice. If 
Donna Tullia had abandoned him when he was driven 
out of Rome by the influence of the Saracinesca, he 
might have disappeared altogether from the scene. But 
she was an odd compound of rashness and foresight, 
of belief and unbelief, and she had at that time felt her- 
self bound by an oath she dared not break, besides being 
attached to him by a hatred of Giovanni Saracinesca 
almost as great as his own. She had followed him and 
had married him without hesitation; but she had kept 
the undivided possession of her fortune while allowing 


54 


DON ORSINO. 


him a liberal use of her income. In return, she claimed 
a certain liberty of action when she chose to avail her- 
self of it. She would not be bound in the choice of her 
acquaintances nor criticised in the measure of like or 
dislike she bestowed upon them. She was by no means 
wholly bad, and if she had a harmless fancy now and 
then, she required her husband to treat her as above 
suspicion. On the whole, the arrangement worked very 
well. Del Ferice, on his part, was unswervingly faith- 
ful to her in word and deed, for he exhibited in a high 
degree that unfaltering constancy which is bred of a 
permanent, unalienable, financial interest. Bad men are 
often clever, but if their cleverness is of a superior order 
they rarely do anything bad. It is true that when they 
yield to the pressure of necessity their wickedness sur- 
passes that of other men in the same degree as their in- 
telligence. Not only honesty, but all virtue collectively, 
is the best possible policy, provided that the politician 
can handle such a tremendous engine of evil as goodness 
is in the hands of a thoroughly bad man. 

Those who desired pecuniary accommodation of the 
bank in which Del Ferice had an interest, had no better 
friend than he. His power with the directors seemed 
to be as boundless as his desire to assist the borrower. 
But he was helpless to prevent the foreclosure of a 
mortgage, and had been moved almost to tears in the 
expression of his sympathy with the debtor and of his 
horror at the hard-heartedness shown by his partners. 
To prove his disinterested spirit it only need be said that 
on many occasions he had actually come forward as a 
private individual and had taken over the mortgage him- 
self, distinctly stating that he could not hold it for more 
than a year, but expressing a hope that the debtor might 
in that time retrieve himself. If this really happened, 
he earned the man’s eternal gratitude; if not, he fore- 
closed indeed, but the loser never forgot that by Del 
Ferice’s kindness he had been offered a last chance at 
a desperate moment. It could not be said to be Del 


DON ORSINO. 


55 


Ferice’s fault that the second case was the more fre- 
quent one, nor that the result to himself was profit in 
either event. 

In his dealings with his constituency he showed a noble 
desire for the public welfare, for he was never known to 
refuse anything in reason to the electors who applied to 
him. It is true that in the case of certain applications, 
he consumed so much time in preliminary enquiries and 
subsequent formalities that the applicants sometimes 
died and sometimes emigrated to the Argentine Republic 
before the matter could be settled; but they bore with 
them to South America — or to the grave — the belief that 
the Onorevole Del Ferice was on their side, and the 
instances of his prompt, decisive and successful action 
were many. He represented a small town in the 
Neapolitan Province, and the benefits and advantages 
he had obtained for it were numberless. The provincial 
high road had been made to pass through it; all express 
trains stopped at its station, though the passengers who 
made use of the inestimable privilege did not average 
twenty in the month; it possessed a Piazza Vittorio 
Emmanuela, a Corso Garibaldi, a Via Cavour, a public 
garden of at least a quarter of an acre, planted with no 
less than twenty-five acacias and adorned by a fountain 
representing a desperate-looking character in the act of 
firing a finely executed revolver at an imaginary oppres- 
sor. Pigs were not allowed within the limits of the 
town, and the uniforms of the municipal brass band were 
perfectly new. Could civilisation do more? The bank 
of which Del Ferice was a director bought the octroi 
duties of the town at the periodical auction, and farmed 
them skilfully, together with those of many other towns 
in the same province. 

So Del Ferice was a very successful man, and it need 
scarcely be said that he was now not only independent 
of his wife’s help but very much richer than she had 
ever been. They lived in a highly decorated, detached 
modern house in the new part of the city. The gilded 


56 


DON ORSINO. 


gate before the little plot of garden, bore their inter- 
twined initials, surmounted by a modest count’s coronet. 
Donna Tullia would have preferred a coat of arms, or 
even a crest, but Ugo was sensitive to ridicule, and he 
was aware that a count’s coronet in Eome means noth- 
ing at all, whereas a coat of arms means vastly more 
than in most cities. 

Within, the dwelling was somewhat unpleasantly 
gorgeous. Donna Tullia had always loved red, both for 
itself and because it made her own complexion seem less 
florid by contrast, and accordingly red satin predomi- 
nated in the drawing-rooms, red velvet in the dining- 
room, red damask in the hall and red carpets on the 
stairs. Some fine specimens of gilding were also to be 
seen, and Del Ferice had been one of the first to use 
electric light. Everything was new, expensive and pol- 
ished to its extreme capacity for reflection. The ser- 
vants wore vivid liveries and on formal occasions the 
butler appeared in short-clothes and black silk stockings. 
Donna Tullia’ s equipage was visible at a great distance, 
but Del Ferice’s own coachman and groom wore dark 
green with black epaulettes. 

On the morning which Orsino and Madame d’Aragona 
had spent in Gouache’s studio the Countess Del Ferice 
entered her husband’s study in order to consult him 
upon a rather delicate matter. He was alone, but busy as 
usual. His attention was divided between an important 
bank operation and a petition for his help in obtaining 
a decoration for the mayor of the town he represented. 
The claim to this distinction seemed to rest chiefly on 
the petitioner’s unasked evidence in regard to his own 
moral rectitude, yet Del Ferice was really exercising all 
his ingenuity to discover some suitable reason for asking 
the favour. He laid the papers down with a sigh as 
Donna Tullia came in. 

“Good morning, my angel,” he said suavely, as he 
pointed to a chair at his side — the one usually occupied 
at this hour by seekers for financial support. “'Have 
you rested well? ” 


DON ORSINO. 


57 


He never failed to ask the question. 

“Not badly, not badly, thank Heaven!” answered 
Donna Tullia. “ I fiave a dreadful cold, of course, and 
a headache — -my head is really splitting.” 

“ Eest — rest is what you need, my dear ” 

“Oh, it is nothing. This Durakoff is a great man. 
If he had not made me go to Carlsbad — I really do not 
know. But I have something to say to you. I want 
your help, Ugo. Please listen to me.” 

Ugo’s fat white face already expressed anxious atten- 
tion. To accentuate the expression of his readiness to 
listen, he now put all his papers into a drawer and turned 
towards his wife. 

“I must go to the Jubilee,” said Donna Tullia, com- 
ing to the point. 

“ Of course you must go ” 

“And I must have my seat among the Roman ladies.” 

“ Of course you must,” repeated Del Perice with a little 
less alacrity v 

“Ah! You see. It is not so easy. You know it is 
not. Yet I have as good a right to my seat as any one — 
better perhaps.” 

“Hardly that,” observed Ugo with a smile. “When 
you married me, my angel, you relinquished your 
claims to a seat at the Vatican functions.” 

“ I did nothing of the kind. I never said so, I am 
sure.” 

“ Perhaps if you could make that clear to the major- 
duomo ” 

“Absurd, Ugo. You know it is. Besides, I will not 
beg. You must get me the seat. You can do anything 
with your influence.” 

“You could easily get into one of the diplomatic trib- 
unes,” observed Ugo. 

“ I will not go there. I mean to assert myself. I am 
a Roman lady and I will have my seat, and you must 
get it for me.” 

“ I will do my best. But I do not quite see where I 


58 


DON OKSINO. 


am to begin. It will need time and consideration and 
much tact.” 

“It seems to me very simple. Go to one of the clerh 
cal deputies and say that you want the ticket for your 
wife ” i, 

“And then?” > 

“ Give him to understand that you will vote for his 
next measure. Nothing could be simpler, I am sure.” 

Del Ferice smiled blandly at his wife’s ideas of parlia- 
mentary diplomacy. 

“ There are no clerical deputies in the parliament of 
the nation. If there were the thing might be possible, 
and it would be very interesting to all the clericals to 
read an account of the transaction in the Osservatore 
Romano. In any case, I am not sure that it will be 
much to our advantage that the wife of the Onorevole 
Del Ferice should be seen seated in the midst of the 
Black ladies. It will produce an unfavourable impres- 
sion.” 

“ If you are going to talk of impressions ” Donna 

Tullia shrugged her massive shoulders. 

“No, my dear. You mistake me. I am not going to 
talk of them, because, as I at once told you, it is quite 
right that you should go to this affair. If you go, you 
must go in the proper way. No doubt there will be 
people who will have invitations but will not use them. 
We can perhaps procure you the use of such a ticket.” 

“ I do not care what name is on the paper, provided 
I can sit in the right place.” 

“Very well,” answered Del Ferice. “I will do my 
best.” 

“I expect it of you, Ugo. It is not often that I ask 
anything of you, is it? It is the least you can do. The 
idea of getting a card that is not to be used is good; of 
course they will all get them, and some of them are sure 
to be ill.” 

Donna Tullia went away satisfied that what she 
wanted would be forthcoming at the right moment. 


DON ORSINO. 


59 


What she had said was true. She rarely asked anything 
of her husband. But when she did, she gave him to 
understand that she would have it at any price. It was 
her way of asserting herself from time to time. On the 
present occasion she had no especial interest at stake 
and any other woman might have been satisfied with a 
seat in the diplomatic tribune, which could probably 
have been obtained without great difficulty. But she 
had heard that the seats there were to be very high and 
she did not really wish to be placed in too prominent a 
position. The light might be unfavourable, and she 
knew that she was subject to growing very red in places 
where it was hot. She had once been a handsome woman 
and a very vain one, but even her vanity could not sur- 
vive the daily shock of the looking-glass torture. To 
sit for four or five hours in a high light, facing fifty 
thousand people, was more than she could bear with 
equanimity. 

Del Ferice, being left to himself, returned to the ques- 
tion of the mayor’s decoration which was of vastly 
greater importance to him than his wife’s position at the 
approaching function. If he failed to get the man what 
he wanted, the fellow would doubtless apply to some 
one of the opposite party, would receive the coveted 
honour and would take the whole voting population of 
the town with him at the next general election, to the 
total discomfiture of Del Ferice. It was necessary to 
find some valid reason for proposing him for the dis- 
tinction. Ugo could not decide what to do just then, 
but he ultimately hit upon a successful plan. He ad- 
vised his correspondent to write a pamphlet upon the 
rapid improvement of agricultural interests in his district 
under the existing ministry, and he even went so far as 
to enclose with his letter some notes on the subject. 
These notes proved to be so voluminous and complete 
that when the mayor had copied them he could not find 
a pretext for adding a single word or correction. They 
were printed upon excellent paper, with ornamental mar- 


60 


DON ORSINO. 


gins, under the title of “ Onward, Parthenope ! ” Of 
course every one knows that Parthenope means Naples, 
the Neapolitans and the Neapolitan Province, a siren of 
that name having come to final grief somewhere between 
the Chiatamone and Posilippo. The mayor got his 
decoration, and Del Perice was re-elected; but no one 
has inquired into the truth of the statements made in 
the pamphlet upon agriculture. 

It is clear that a man who was capable of taking so 
much trouble for so small a matter would not disappoint 
his wife when she had set her heart upon such a trifle as 
a ticket for the Jubilee. Within three days he had the 
promise of what he wanted. A certain lonely lady of 
high position lay very ill just then, and it need scarcely 
be explained that her confidential servant fell upon the 
invitation as soon as it arrived and sold it for a round 
sum to the first applicant, who happened to be Count 
Del Pence’s valet. So the matter was arranged, pri- 
vately and without scandal. 

All Rome was alive with expectation. The date fixed 
was the first of January, and as the day approached the 
curious foreigner mustered in his thousands and tens of 
thousands and took the city by storm. The hotels were 
thronged. The billiard tables were let as furnished 
rooms, people slept in the lifts, on the landings, in the 
porters 7 lodges. The thrifty Romans retreated to roofs 
and cellars and let their small dwellings. People reach- 
ing the city on the last night slept in the cabs they had 
hired to take them to St. Peter’s before dawn. Even 
the supplies of food ran low and the hungry fed on what 
they could get, while the delicate of taste very often did 
not feed at all. There was of course the usual scare 
about a revolutionary demonstration, to which the 
natives paid very little attention, but which delighted 
the foreigners. 

Not more than half of those who hoped to witness 
the ceremony saw anything of it, though the basilica 
will hold some eighty thousand people at a pinch, and 


DON ORSINO. 


61 


the crowd on that occasion was far greater than at the 
opening of the (Ecumenical Council in 1869. 

Madame d’Aragona had also determined to be present, 
and she expressed her desire to Gouache. She had 
spoken the strict truth when she had said that she knew 
no one in Home, and so far as general accuracy is con- 
cerned it was equally true that she had not fixed the 
length of her stay. She had not come with any settled 
purpose beyond a vague idea of having her portrait 
painted by the French artist, and unless she took the 
trouble to make acquaintances, there was nothing attrac- 
tive enough about the capital to keep her. She allowed 
herself to be driven about the town, on pretence of 
seeing churches and galleries, but in reality she saw 
very little of either. She was preoccupied with her own 
thoughts and subject to fits of abstraction. Most things 
seemed to her intensely dull, and the unhappy guide 
who had been selected to accompany her on her excur- 
sions, wasted his learning upon her on the first morning, 
and subsequently exhausted the magnificent catalogue of 
impossibilities which he had concocted for the especial 
benefit of the uncultivated foreigner, without eliciting 
so much as a look of interest or an expression of surprise. 
He was a young and fascinating guide, wearing a white 
satin tie, and on the third day he recited some verses of 
Stecchetti and was about to risk a declaration of worship 
in ornate prose, when he was suddenly rather badly 
scared by the lady’s yellow eyes, and ran on nervously 
with a string of deceased popes and their dates. 

“Get me a card for the Jubilee,” she said abruptly. 

“An entrance is very easily procured,” answered the 
guide. “ In fact I have one in my pocket, as it happens. 
I bought it for twenty francs this morning, thinking that 
one of my foreigners would perhaps take it of me. I do 
not even gain a franc — my word of honour.” 

Madame d’Aragona glanced at the slip of paper. 

“Hot that,” she answered. “Do you imagine that I 
will stand? I want a seat in one of the tribunes.” 


62 


DON ORSINO. 


The guide lost himself in apologies, but explained that 
he could not get what she desired. 

“What are you for?” she inquired. 

She was an indolent woman, but when by any chance 
she wanted anything, Donna Tullia herself was not more 
restless. She drove at once to Gouache’s studio. He 
was alone and she told him what she needed. 

“The Jubilee, Madame? Is it possible that you have 
been forgotten? ” 

“ Since they have never heard of me ! I have not the 
slightest claim to a place.” 

“ It is you who say that. But your place is already 
secured. Fear nothing. You will be with the Roman 
ladies.” 

“ I do not understand ” 

“It is simple. I was thinking of it yesterday. 
Young Saracinesca comes in and begins to talk about 
you. There is Madame d’Aragona who has no seat, he 
says. One must arrange that. So it is arranged.” 

“By Don Orsino?” 

“You would not accept? Ho. A young man, and 
you have only met once. But tell me what you think of 
him. Do you like him?” 

“One does not like people so easily as that,” said 
Madame d’ Aragoha. “ How have you arranged about 
the seat?” 

“ It is very simple. There are to be two days, you 
know. My wife has her cards for both, of course. She 
will only go once. If you will accept the one for the 
first day, she will be very happy.” 

“You are angelic, my dear friend! Then I go as your 
wife?” She laughed. 

“Precisely. You will be Faustina Gouache instead 
of Madame d’Aragona.” 

“ How delightful ! By the bye, do not call me Madame 
d’Aragona. It is not my name. I might as well call 
you Monsieur de Paris, because you are a Parisian.” 

“I do not put Anastase Gouache de Paris on my 


DON OESINO. 


68 


cards, ” answered Gouache with a laugh. “What may 
I call you? Donna Maria? ” 

“My name is Maria Consuelo d’Aranjuez.” 

“An ancient Spanish name,” said Gouache. 

“My husband was an Italian.” 

“Ah! Of Spanish descent, originally of Aragona. 
Of course.” 

“Exactly. Since I am here, shall I sit for you? 
You might almost finish to-day.” 

“Not so soon as that. It is Don Orsino’s hour, but as 
he has not come, and since you are so kind — by all 
means.” 

“ Ah ! Is he unpunctual ? ” 

“He is probably running after those abominable dogs 
in pursuit of the feeble fox — what they call the noble 
sport.” 

Gouache’s face expressed considerable disgust.” 

“Poor fellow! ” said Maria Consuelo. “He has noth- 
ing else to do.” 

“ He will get used to it. They all do. Besides, it is 
really the natural condition of man. Total idleness is 
his element. If Providence meant man to work, it 
should have given him two heads, one for his profession 
and one for himself. A man needs one entire and un- 
divided intelligence for the study of his own individu- 
ality.” 

“ What an idea ! ” 

“ Do not men of great genius notoriously forget them- 
selves, forget to eat and drink and dress themselves like 
Christians? That is because they have not two heads. 
Providence expects a man to do two things at once — 
sing an air from an opera and invent the steam-engine 
at the same moment. Nature rebels. Then Providence 
and Nature do not agree. What becomes of religion? 
It is all a mystery. Believe me, Madame, art is easier 
than nature, and painting is simpler than theology.” 

Maria Consuelo listened to Gouache’s extraordinary 
remarks with a smile. 


64 


DON ORSINO. 


“ You are either paradoxical, or irreligious, or both,” 
she said. 

“ Irreligious? I, who carried a rifle at Mentana? No, 
Madame, I am a good Catholic.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“I believe in God, and I love my wife. I leave it to 
the Church to define my other articles of belief. I have 
only one head, as you see.” 

Gouache smiled, but there was a note of sincerity in 
the odd statement which did not escape his hearer. 

“You are not of the type which belongs to the end of 
the century,” she said. 

“ That type was not invented when I was forming my- 
self.” 

“ Perhaps you belong rather to the coming age — the 
age of simplification.” 

“As distinguished from the age of mystification — 
religious, political, scientific and artistic,” suggested 
Gouache. “The people of that day will guess the 
Sphynx’s riddle.” 

“Mine? You were comparing me to a sphynx the 
other day.” 

“Yours, perhaps, Madame. Who knows? Are you 
the typical woman of the ending century?” 

“Why not?” asked Maria Consuelo with a sleepy 
look. 


CHAPTER V. 

There is something grand in any great assembly of 
animals belonging to the same race. The very idea of 
an immense number of living creatures conveys an im- 
pression not suggested by anything else. A compact 
herd of fifty or sixty thousand lions would be an appal- 
ling vision, beside which a like multitude of human 
beings would sink into insignificance. A drove of wild 


DON ORSINO. 


65 


cattle is, I think, a finer sight than a regiment of cavalry 
in motion, for the cavalry is composite, half man and 
half horse, whereas the cattle have the advantage of 
unity. But we can never see so many animals of any 
species driven together into one limited space as to be 
equal to a vast throng of men and women, and we con- 
clude naturally enough that a crowd consisting solely of 
our own kind is the most imposing one conceivable. 

It was scarcely light on the morning of New Year’s 
Day when the Princess Sant’ Ilario found herself seated 
in one of the low tribunes on the north side of the high 
altar in Saint Peter’s. Her husband and her eldest son 
had accompanied her, and having placed her in a posi- 
tion from which they judged she could easily escape 
at the end of the ceremony, they remained standing in 
the narrow, winding passage between improvised barri- 
ers which led from the tribune to the door of the sac- 
risty, and which had been so arranged as to prevent con- 
fusion. Here they waited, greeting their acquaintances 
when they could recognise them in the dim twilight of 
the church, and watching the ever-increasing crowd that 
surged slowly backward and forward outside the barrier. 
The old prince was entitled by an hereditary office to a 
place in the great procession of the day, and was not now 
with them.. 

Orsino felt as though the whole world were assembled 
about him within the huge cathedral, as though its heart 
were beating audibly and its muffled breathing rising and 
falling in his hearing. The unceasing sound that went 
up from the compact mass of living beings was soft 
in quality, but enormous in volume and sustained in 
tone, a great whispering which might have been heard a 
mile away. One hears in mammoth musical festivals the 
extraordinary effect of four or five thousand voices sing- 
ing very softly ; it is not to be compared to the unceas- 
ing whisper of fifty thousand men. 

The young fellow was conscious of a strange, irregular 
thrill of enthusiasm which ran through him from time 

F 


66 


DON ORSINO. 


to time and startled his imagination into life. It was 
only the instinct of a strong vitality unconsciously long- 
ing to be the central point of the vitalities around it. 
But he could not understand that. It seemed to him 
like a great opportunity brought within reach but slip- 
ping by untaken, not to return again. He felt a strange, 
almost uncontrollable longing to spring upon one of the 
tribunes, to raise his voice, to speak to the great multi- 
tude, to fire all those men to break out and carry every- 
thing before them. He laughed audibly at himself. 
Sant’ Ilario looked at his son with some curiosity. 

“What amuses you?” he asked. 

“A dream,” answered Orsino, still smiling. “Who 
knows?” he exclaimed after a pause. “What would 
happen, if at the right moment the right man could stir 
such a crowd as this?” 

“Strange things,” replied Sant’ Ilario gravely. “A 
crowd is a terrible weapon.” 

“ Then my dream was not so foolish after all. One 
might make history to-day.” 

Sant’ Ilario made a gesture expressive of indifference. 

“What is history?” he asked. “A comedy in which 
the actors have no written parts, but improvise their 
speeches and actions as best they can. That is the rea- 
son why history is so dull and so full of mistakes.” 

“And of surprises,” suggested Orsino. 

“ The surprises in history are always disagreeable, my 
boy,” answered Sant’ Ilario. 

Orsino felt the coldness in the answer and felt even 
more his father’s readiness to damp any expression of 
enthusiasm. Of late he had encountered this chilling 
indifference at almost every turn, whenever he gave 
vent to his admiration for any sort of activity. 

It was not that Giovanni Saracinesca had any inten- 
tion of repressing his son’s energetic instincts, and he 
assuredly had no idea of the effect his words often pro- 
duced. He sometimes wondered at the sudden silence 
which came over the young man after such conversations, 


DON ORSINO. 


67 


but he did not understand it and on the whole paid little 
attention to it. He remembered that he himself had been 
different, and had been wont to argue hotly and not un- 
frequently to quarrel with his father about trifles. He 
himself had been headstrong, passionate, often intract- 
able in his early youth, and his father had been no bet- 
ter at sixty and was little improved in that respect even 
at his present great age. But Orsino did not argue. 
He suggested, and if any one disagreed with him he be- 
came silent. He seemed to possess energy in action, 
and a number of rather fantastic aspirations, but in con- 
versation he was easily silenced and in outward manner 
he would have seemed too yielding if he had not often 
seemed too cold. 

Giovanni did not see that Orsino was most like his 
mother in character, while the contact with a new gen- 
eration had given him something unfamiliar to the old, 
an affectation at first, but one which habit was amalga- 
mating with the real nature beneath. 

Ho doubt, it was wise and right to discourage ideas 
which would tend in any way to revolution. Giovanni 
had seen revolutions and had been the loser by them. 
It was not wise and was certainly not necessary to throw 
cold water on the young fellow’s harmless aspirations. 
But Giovanni had lived for many years in his own way, 
rich, respected and supremely happy, and he believed 
that his way was good enough for Orsino. He had, in 
his youth, tried most things for himself, and had found 
them failures so far as happiness was concerned. Orsino 
might make the series of experiments in his turn if he 
pleased, but there was no adequate reason for such an 
expenditure of energy. The sooner the boy loved some 
girl who would make him a good wife, and the sooner 
he married her, the sooner he would find that calm, 
satisfactory existence which had not finally come to 
Giovanni until after thirty years of age. 

As for the question of fortune, it was true that there 
were four sons, but there was Giovanni’s mother’s for- 


68 


DON ODSINO. 


tune, there was Corona’s fortune, and there was the 
great Saracinesca estate behind both. They were all so 
extremely rich that the deluge must be very distant. 

Orsino understood none of these things. He only 
realised that his father had the faculty and appar- 
ently the intention of freezing any originality he chanced 
to show, and he inwardly resented the coldness, quietly, 
if foolishly, resolving to astonish those who misunder- 
stood him by seizing the first opportunity of doing some- 
thing out of the common way. Tor some time he stood 
in silence watching the people who came by and glanc- 
ing from time to time at the dense crowd outside the 
barrier. He was suddenly aware that his father was 
observing intently a lady who advanced along the open 
way. 

“ There is Tullia Del Terice ! ” exclaimed Sant’ Ilario 
in surprise. 

“I do not know her, except by sight,” observed Orsino 
indifferently. 

The countess was very imposing in her black veil and 
draperies. Her red face seemed to lose its colour in the 
dim church and she affected a slow and stately manner 
more becoming to her weight than was her natural rest- 
less vivacity. She had got what she desired and she 
swept proudly along to take her old place among the 
ladies of Tome. No one knew whose card she had 
delivered up at the entrance to the sacristy, and she en- 
joyed the triumph of showing that the wife of the revo- 
lutionary, the banker, the member of parliament, had 
not lost caste after all. 

, She looked Giovanni full in the face with her dis- 
agreeable blue eyes as she .came up, apparently not mean- 
ing to recognise him. Then, just as she passed him, she 
deigned to make a very slight inclination of the head, 
just enough to compel Sant’ Ilario to return the saluta- 
tion. It was very well done. Orsino did not know all 
the details of the past events, but he knew that his 
father had once wounded Del Terice in a duel and he 


DON ORSINO. 


69 


looked at Del Fence’s wife with some curiosity. He 
had seldom had an opportunity of being so near to her. 

“It was certainly not about her that they fought,” 
he reflected. “It must have been about some other 
woman, if there was a woman in the question at all.” 

A moment later he was aware that a pair of tawny 
eyes was fixed on him. Maria Consuelo was following 
Donna Tullia at a distance of a dozen yards. Orsino 
came forward and his new acquaintance held out her hand. 
They had not met since they had first seen each other. 

“It was so kind of you,” she said. 

“What, Madame?” 

“ To suggest this to Gouache. I should have had no 
ticket — where shall I sit? ” 

Orsino did not understand, for though he had men- 
tioned the subject, Gouache had not told him what he 
meant to do. But there was no time to be lost in con- 
versation. Orsino led her to the nearest opening in the 
tribune and pointed to a seat. 

“ I called, ” he said quickly. “ You did not receive ’ ’ 

“Come again, I will be at home,” she answered in a 
low voice, as she passed him. 

She sat down in a vacant place beside Donna Tullia, 
and Orsino noticed that his mother was just behind them 
both. Corona had been watching him unconsciously, as 
she often did, and was somewhat surprised to see him 
conducting a lady whom she did not know. A glance 
told her that the lady was a foreigner; as such, if she 
were present at all, she should have been in the diplo- 
matic tribune. There was nothing to think of, and 
Corona tried to solve the small social problem that pre- 
sented itself. Orsino strolled back to his father’s side. 

“Who is she?” inquired Sant’ Ilario with some curi- 
osity. 

“The lady who wanted the tiger’s skin — Aranjuez — I 
told you of her.” 

“ The portrait you gave me was not flattering. She is 
handsome, if not beautiful.” 


70 


DON ORSINO. 


‘‘Did I say she was not?” asked Orsino with a visible 
irritation most unlike him. 

“I thought so. You said she had yellow eyes, red 
hair and a squint.” Sant’ Ilario laughed. 

“ Perhaps I did. But the effect seems to be harmonious. ” 

“ Decidedly so. You might have introduced me.” 

To this Orsino said nothing, but relapsed into a moody 
silence. He would have liked nothing better than to 
bring about the acquaintance, but he had only met Maria 
Consuelo once, though that interview had been a long 
one, and he remembered her rather short answer to his 
offer of service in the way of making acquaintances. 

Maria Consuelo on her part was quite unconscious that 
she was sitting in front of the Princess Sant’ Ilario, but 
she had seen the lady by her side bow to Orsino’s com- 
panion in passing, and she guessed from a certain resem- 
blance that the dark, middle-aged man might be young 
Saracinesca’s father. Donna Tullia had seen Corona well 
enough, but as they had not spoken for nearly twenty 
years she decided not to risk a nod where she could not 
command an acknowledgment of it. So she pretended to 
be quite unconscious of her old enemy’s presence. 

Donna Tullia, however, had noticed as she turned her 
head in sitting down that Orsino was piloting a strange 
lady to the tribune, and when the latter sat down beside 
her, she determined to make her acquaintance, no matter 
upon what pretext. The time was approaching at which 
the procession was to make its appearance, and Donna 
Tullia looked about for something upon which to open 
the conversation, glancing from time to time at her 
neighbour. It was easy to see that the place and the 
surroundings were equally unfamiliar to the newcomer, 
who looked with evident interest at the twisted columns 
of the high altar, at the vast mosaics in the dome, at the 
red damask hangings of the nave, at the Swiss guards, 
the chamberlains in court dress and at all the mediseval- 
looking, motley figures that moved about within the 
space kept open for the coming function. 


DON ORSINO. 


71 


“ It is a wonderful sight / 5 said Donna Tullia in French, 
very softly, and almost as though speaking to herself. 

“ Wonderful indeed , 55 answered Maria Consuelo, “es- 
pecially to a stranger . 55 

“ Madame is a stranger, then , 55 observed Donna Tullia 
with an agreeable smile. 

She looked into her neighbour’s face and for the first 
time realised that she was a striking person. 

“Quite , 55 replied the latter, briefly, and as though not 
wishing to press the conversation. 

“I fancied so , 55 said Donna Tullia, “though on seeing 
you in these seats, among us Homans 55 

“I received a card through the kindness of a friend . 55 

There was a short pause, during which Donna Tullia 
concluded that the friend must have been Orsino. But 
the next remark threw her off the scent. 

“It was his wife’s ticket, I believe , 55 said Maria Con- 
suelo. “ She could not come. I am here on false pre- 
tences.” She smiled carelessly. 

Donna Tullia lost herself in speculation, but failed to 
solve the problem. 

“You have chosen a most favourable moment for your 
first visit to Rome,” she remarked at last. 

“Yes. I am always fortunate. I believe I have seen 
everything worth seeing ever since I was a little girl.” 

“ She is somebody , 55 thought Donna Tullia. “ Probably 
the wife of a diplomatist, though. Those people see 
everything, and talk of nothing but what they have 
seen.” 

“This is historic,” she said aloud. “You will have a 
chance of contemplating the Romans in their glory. 
Colonna and Or s ini marching side by side, and old Sara- 
cinesca in all his magnificence. He is eighty-two year 
old.” 

“ Saracinesca ? 55 repeated Maria Consuelo, turning her 
tawny eyes upon her neighbour. 

“Yes. The father of Sant 5 Ilario — grandfather of 
that young fellow who showed you to your seat.” 


72 


DON ORSINO. 


“Don Orsino? Yes, I know him slightly.” 

Corona, sitting immediately behind them heard her 
son’s name. As the two ladies turned towards each 
other in conversation she heard distinctly what they 
said. Donna Tullia was of course aware of this. 

“Do you?” she asked. “His father is a most esti- 
mable man — just a little too estimable, if you under- 
stand ! As for the boy ” 

Donna Tullia moved her broad shoulders expressively. 
It was a habit of which even the irreproachable Del 
Ferice could not cure her. Corona’s face darkened. 

“You can hardly call him a boy,” observed Maria 
Consuelo with a smile. 

“Ah well — I might have been his mother,” Donna 
Tullia answered with a contempt for the affectation of 
youth which she rarely showed. But Corona began to 
understand that the conversation was meant for her 
ears, and grew angry by degrees. Donna Tullia had 
indeed been near to marrying Giovanni, and in that 
sense, too, she might have been Orsino’s mother. 

“I fancied you spoke rather disparagingly, ” said 
Maria Consuelo with a certain degree of interest. 

“I? No indeed. On the contrary, Don Orsino is a 
very fine fellow — but thrown away, positively thrown 
away in his present surroundings. Of what use is all 
this English education — but you are a stranger, Madame, 
you cannot understand our Roman point of view.” 

“If you could explain it to me, I might, perhaps,” 
suggested the other. 

“Ah yes — if I could explain it! But I am far too 
ignorant myself — no, ignorant is not the word — too pre- 
judiced, perhaps, to make you see it quite as it is. Per- 
haps I am a little too liberal, and the Saracinesca are 
certainly far too conservative. They mistake education 
for progress. Poor Don Orsino, I am sorry for him.” 

Donna Tullia found no other escape from the diffi- 
culty into which she had thrown herself. 

“ I did not know that he was to be pitied, ” said Maria 
Consuelo, 


DON ORSINO. 


73 


“Oh, not he in particular, perhaps,” answered the 
stout countess, growing more and more vague. “ They 
are all to be pitied, you know. What is to become of 
young men brought up in that way? The club, the turf, 
the card-table — to drink, to gamble, to bet, it is not an 
existence ! ” 

“Do you mean that Don Orsino leads that sort of 
life?” inquired Maria Consuelo indifferently. 

Again Donna Tullia' s heavy shoulders moved con- 
temptuously. 

“What else is there for him to do?” 

“And his father? Did he not do likewise in his 
youth? ” 

“ His father? Ah, he was different — before he married 
—full of life, activity, originality ! ” 

“And since his marriage?” 

“He has become estimable, most estimable.” The 
smile with which Donna Tullia accompanied the state- 
ment was intended to be fine, but was only spiteful. 
Maria Consuelo, who saw everything with her sleepy 
glance, noticed the fact. 

Corona was disgusted, and leaned back in her seat, as 
far as possible, in order not to hear more. She could 
not help wondering who the strange lady might be to 
whom Donna Tullia was so freely expressing her opin- 
ions concerning the Saracinesca, and she determined to 
ask Orsino after the ceremony. But she wished to hear 
as little more as she could. 

“ When a married man becomes what you call estima- 
ble,” said Donna Tullia's companion, “he either adores 
his wife or hates her.” 

“ What a charming idea!” laughed the countess. It 
was tolerably evident that the remark was beyond her. 

“ She is stupid,” thought Maria Consuelo. “ I fancied 
so from the first. I will ask Don Orsino about her. 
He will say something amusing. It will be a subject of 
conversation at all events, in place of that endless tiger 
I invented the other day. I wonder whether this woman 


74 


DON ORSINO. 


expects me to tell her who I am? That will amount to 
an acquaintance. She is certainly somebody, or she 
would not be here. On the other hand, she seems to 
dislike the only man I know besides Gouache. That 
may lead to complications. Let us talk of Gouache first, 
and be guided by circumstances.” 

“Do you know Monsieur Gouache?” she inquired, 
abruptly.- 

“The painter? Yes — I have known him a long time. 
Is he perhaps painting your portrait? ” 

“ Exactly. It is really for that purpose that I am in 
Borne. What a charming man ! ” 

“Do you think so? Perhaps he is. He painted me 
some time ago. I was not very well satisfied. But he 
has talent.” 

Donna Tullia had never forgiven the artist for not 
putting enough soul into the picture he had painted of 
her when she was a very young widow. 

“He has a great reputation,” said Maria Consuelo, 
“and I think he will succeed very well with me. Be- 
sides, I am grateful to him. He and his painting have 
been a pleasant episode in my short stay here.” 

“Beally, I should hardly have thought you could find 
it worth your while to come all the way to Borne to be 
painted by Gouache, ” observed Donna Tullia. “ But of 
course, as I say, he has talent.” 

“This woman is rich,” she said to herself. “The 
wives of diplomatists do not allow themselves such 
caprices, as a rule. I wonder who she is?” 

“ Great talent, ” assented Maria Consuelo. “ And great 
charm, I think.” 

“Ah well — of course — I daresay. We Bomans can- 
not help thinking that for an artist he is a little too 
much occupied in being a gentleman — and for a gentle- 
man he is quite too much an artist.” 

The remark was not original with Donna Tullia, but 
had been reported to her as Spicca’s, and Spicca had 
really said something similar about somebody else. 


DON ORSINO. 


75 


“I had not got that impression,” said Maria Consuelo, 
quietly. 

“She hates him, too,” she thought. “She seems to 
hate everybody. That either means that she knows 
everybody, or is not received in society.” 

“ But of course you know him better than I do, ” she 
added aloud, after a little pause. 

At that moment a strain of music broke out above the 
great, soft, muffled whispering that filled the basilica. 
Some thirty chosen voices of the choir of Saint Peter’s 
had begun the hymn “Tu es Petrus,” as the procession 
began to defile from the south aisle into the nave, close 
by the great door, to traverse the whole distance thence 
to the high altar. The Pope’s own choir, consisting 
solely of the singers of the Sixtine Chapel, waited 
silently behind the lattice under the statue of Saint 
Veronica. 

The song rang out louder and louder, simple and grand. 
Those who have heard Italian singers at their best know 
that thirty young Roman throats can emit a volume of 
sound equal to that which a hundred men of any other 
nation could produce. The stillness around them in- 
creased, too, as the procession lengthened. The great, 
dark crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, breathless with 
expectation, each man and woman feeling for a few 
short moments that thrill of mysterious anxiety and im- 
patience which Orsino had felt. No one who was there 
can ever forget what followed. More than forty cardi- 
nals filed out in front from the Chapel of the Pieta. 
Then the hereditary assistants of the Holy See, the 
heads of the Colonna and the Orsini houses, entered the 
nave, side by side for the first time, I believe, in history. 
Immediately after them, high above all the procession 
and the crowd, appeared the great chair of state, the huge 
white feathered fans moving slowly on each side, and 
upon the throne, the central figure of that vast display, 
sat the Pope, Leo the Thirteenth. 

Then, without warning and without hesitation, a shout 


76 


DON ORSINO. 


went up such as has never been heard before in that dim 
cathedral, nor will, perhaps, be heard again. 

“ Viva il Papa-B& ! Long life to the Pope-King ! ” 

At the same instant, as though at a preconcerted signal 
— utterly impossible in such a throng — in the twinkling 
of an eye, the dark crowd was as white as snow. In 
every hand a white handkerchief was raised, fluttering 
and waving above every head. 

And the shout once taken up, drowned the strong 
voices of the singers as long-drawn thunder drowns the 
pattering of the raindrops and the sighing of the wind. 

The wonderful face, that seemed to be carved out of 
transparent alabaster, smiled and slowly turned from 
side to side as it passed by. The thin, fragile hand 
moved unceasingly, blessing the people. 

Orsino Saracinesca saw and heard, and his young face 
turned pale while his lips set themselves. By his side, 
a head shorter than he, stood his father, lost in thought 
as he gazed at the mighty spectacle of what had been, 
and of what might still have been, but for one day of 
history’s surprises. 

Orsino said nothing, but he glanced at Sant’ Ilario’s 
face as though to remind his father of what he had said 
half an hour earlier; and the elder man knew that there 
had been truth in the boy’s words. There were soldiers 
in the church, and they were not Italian soldiers — some 
thousands of them in all, perhaps. They were armed, 
and there were at the very least computation thirty 
thousand strong, grown men in the crowd. And the 
crowd was on fire. Had there been a hundred, nay a 
score, of desperate, devoted leaders there, who knows 
what bloody work might not have been done in the city 
before the sun went down? Who knows what new sur- 
prises history might have found for her play? The 
thought must have crossed many minds at that moment. 
But no one stirred; the religious ceremony remained a 
religious ceremony and nothing more ; holy peace reigned 
within the walls, and the hour of peril glided away un- 
disturbed to take its place among memories of good. 


DON ORSINO. 


77 


“ The world is worn out ! ” thought Orsino. “ The 
days of great deeds are over. Let us eat and drink, for 
to-morrow we die — they are right in teaching me their 
philosophy.” 

A gloomy, sullen melancholy took hold of the boy’s 
young nature, a passing mood, perhaps, but one which 
left its mark upon him. Tor he was at that age when a 
very little thing will turn the balance of a character, 
when an older man’s thoughtless words may direct half 
a lifetime in a good or evil channel, being recalled and 
repeated for a score of years. Who is it that does not 
remember that day when an impatient “ I will, ” or a 
defiant “I will not,” turned the whole current of his 
existence in the one direction or the other, towards good 
or evil, or towards success or failure? Who, that has 
fought his way against odds into the front rank, has for- 
gotten the woman’s look that gave him courage, or the 
man’s sneer that braced nerve and muscle to strike the 
first of many hard blows? 

The depression which fell upon Orsino was lasting, 
for that morning at least. The stupendous pageant went 
on before him, the choirs sang, the sweet boys’ voices 
answered back, like an angel’s song, out of the lofty 
dome, the incense rose in columns through the streaming 
sunlight as the high mass proceeded. Again the Pope 
was raised upon the chair and borne out into the nave, 
whence in the solemn silence the thin, clear, aged voice 
intoned the benediction three times, slowly rising and 
falling, pausing and beginning again. Once more the 
enormous shout broke out, louder and deeper than ever, 
as the procession moved away. Then all was over. 

Orsino saw and heard, but the first impression was 
gone, and the thrill did not come back. 

“ It was a fine sight, ” he said to his father, as the 
shout died away. 

“A fine sight? Have you no stronger expression than 
that? ” 

“No,” answered Orsino, “I have not.” 


78 


DON ORSINO. 


The ladies were already coming out of the tribunes, 
and Orsino saw his father give his arm to Corona to 
lead her through the crowd. Naturally enough, Maria 
Consuelo and Donna Tullia came out together very soon 
after her. Orsino offered to pilot the former through the 
confusion, and she accepted gratefully. Donna Tullia 
walked beside them. 

“You do not know me, Don Orsino,” said she with a 
gracious smile. 

“ I beg your pardon — you are the Countess Del Eerice 
— I have not been back from England long, and have not 
had an opportunity of being presented. ” 

Whatever might be Orsino’s weaknesses, shyness was 
certainly not one of them, and as he made the civil an- 
swer he calmly looked at Donna Tullia as though to 
inquire what in the world she wished to accomplish in 
making his acquaintance. He had been so situated dur- 
ing the ceremony as not to see that the two ladies had 
fallen into conversation. 

“Will you introduce me?” said Maria Consuelo. 
“We have been talking together.” 

She spoke in a low voice, but the words could hardly 
have escaped Donna Tullia. Orsino was very much sur- 
prised and not by any means pleased, for he saw that the 
elder woman had forced the introduction by a rather 
vulgar trick. Nevertheless, he could not escape. 

“ Since you have been good enough to recognise me,” he 
said rather stiffly to Donna Tullia, “ permit me to make 
you acquainted with Madame d’Aranjuez d’Aragona.” 

Both ladies nodded and smiled the smile of the newly 
introduced. Donna Tullia at once began to wonder how 
it was that a person with such a name should have but 
a plain “ Madame ” to put before it. But her curiosity 
was not satisfied on this occasion. 

“ How absurd society is ! ” she exclaimed. “ Madame 
d’Aranjuez and I have been talking all the morning, 
quite like old friends — and now we need an introduc- 
tion! ” 


DON ORSINO. 


79 


Maria Consuelo glanced at Orsino as though expecting 
him to make some remark. But he said nothing. 

“ What should we do' without conventions ! ” she said, 
for the sake of saying something. 

By this time they were threading the endless passages 
of the sacristy building, on their way to the Piazza Santa 
Marta. Sant’ Ilario and Corona were not far in front of 
them. At a turn in the corridor Corona looked back. 

“ There is Orsino talking to Tullia Del Ferice!” she 
exclaimed in great surprise. “ And he has given his arm 
to that other lady who was next to her in the tribune.” 

“What does it matter?” asked Sant’ Ilario indiffer- 
ently. “By the bye, the other lady is that Madame 
d’Aranjuez he talks about.” 

“Is she any relation of your mother’s family, 
Giovanni? ” 

“Not that I am aware of. She may have married 
some younger son of whom I never heard.” 

“You do not seem to care whom Orsino knows,” said 
Corona rather reproachfully. 

“ Orsino is grown up, dear. You must not forget that.” 

“Yes — I suppose he is,” Corona answered with a little 
sigh. “ But surely you will not encourage him to culti- 
vate the Del Ferice ! ” 

“ I fancy it would take a deal of encouragement to drive 
him to that,” said Sant’ Ilario with a laugh. “He has 
better taste.” 

There was some confusion outside. People were wait- 
ing for their carriages, and as most of them knew each 
other intimately every one was talking at once. Donna 
Tullia nodded here and there, but Maria Consuelo noticed 
that her salutations were coldly returned. Orsino and 
his two companions stood a little aloof from the crowd. 
Just then the Saracinesca carriage drove up. 

“Who is that magnificent woman?” asked Maria 
Consuelo, as Corona got in. 

“ My mother, ” said Orsino. “ My father is getting in 
now.” 


80 


DON ORSINO. 


“ There comes my carriage! Please help me.” 

A modest hired brougham made its appearance. Orsino 
hoped that Madame d’Aranjuez would offer him a seat. 
But he was mistaken. 

“ I am afraid mine is miles away, ” said Donna Tullia. 
“ Good-bye, I shall be so glad if you will come and see 
me.” She held out her hand. 

“May I not take you home?” asked Maria Consuelo. 
“ There is just room — it will be better than waiting here.” 

Donna Tullia hesitated a moment, and then accepted, 
to Orsino ? s great annoyance. He helped the two ladies 
to get in, and shut the door. 

“Come soon,” said Maria Consuelo, giving him her 
hand out of the window. 

He was inclined to be angry, but the look that accom- 
panied the invitation did its work satisfactorily. 

“He is very young,” thought Maria Consuelo, as she 
drove away. 

“She can be very amusing. It is worth while,” said 
Orsino to himself as he passed in front of the next car- 
riage, and walked out upon the small square. 

He had not gone far, hindered as he was at every step, 
when some one touched his arm. It was Spicca, looking 
more cadaverous and exhausted than usual. 

“ Are you going home in a cab?” he asked. “Then 
let us go together.” 

They got out of the square, scarcely knowing how they 
had accomplished the feat. Spicca seemed nervous as 
well as tired, and he leaned on Orsino’s arm. 

“ There was a chance lost this morning,” said the latter 
when they were under the colonnade. He felt sure of 
a bitter answer from the keen old man. 

“ Why did you not seize it then? ” asked Spicca. “ Do 
you expect old men like me to stand up and yell for a 
republic, or a restoration, or a monarchy, or whichever 
of the other seven plagues of Egypt you desire? I have 
not voice enough left to call a cab, much less to howl 
down a kingdom.” 


DON ORSINO. 


81 


“ I wonder what would have happened, if I, or some 
one else, had tried.” 

“ You would have spent the night in prison with a few 
kindred spirits. After all, that would have been better 
than making love to old Donna Tullia and her young 
friend.” 

Orsino laughed. 

“You have good eyes,” he said. 

“So have you, Orsino. Use them. You will see 
something odd if you look where you were looking this 
morning. Do you know what sort of a place this world 
is? ” 

“It is a dull place. I have found that out already.” 

“You are mistaken. It is hell. Do you mind calling 
that cab? ” 

Orsino stared a moment at his companion, and then 
hailed the passing conveyance. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Orsino had shown less anxiety to see Madame d’Aran- 
juez than might perhaps have been expected. In the 
ten days which had elapsed between the sitting at 
Gouache’s studio and the first of January he had only 
once made an attempt to find her at home, and that at- 
tempt had failed. He had not even seen her passing in 
the street, and he had not been conscious of any uncon- 
trollable desire to catch a glimpse of her at any price. 

But he had not forgotten her existence as he would 
certainly have forgotten that of a wholly indifferent 
person in the same time. On the contrary, he had 
thought of her frequently and had indulged in many 
speculations concerning her, wondering among other 
matters why he did not take more trouble to see her since 
she occupied his thoughts so much. He did not know 

G 


82 


DON ORSINO. 


that he was in reality hesitating, for he would not have 
acknowledged to himself that he could be in danger of 
falling seriously in love. He was too young to admit 
such a possibility, and the character which he admired 
and meant to assume was altogether too cold and superior 
to such weaknesses. To do him justice, he was really 
not of the sort to fall in love at first sight. Persons 
capable of a self-imposed dualism rarely are, for the 
second nature they build up on the foundation of their 
own is never wholly artificial. The disposition to cer- 
tain modes of thought and habits of bearing is really 
present, as is sufficiently proved by their admiration of 
both. Very shy persons, for instance', invariably admire 
very self-possessed ones, and in trying to imitate them 
occasionally exhibit a cold-blooded arrogance which is 
amazing. Timothy Titmouse secretly looks up to Don 
Juan as his ideal, and after half a lifetime of failure 
outdoes his model, to the horror of his friends. Diony- 
sus masks as Hercules, and the fox is sometimes not 
unsuccessful in his saint’s disguise. Those who have 
been intimate with a great actor know that the charac- 
ters he plays best are not all assumed; there is a little 
of each in his own nature. There is a touch of the real 
Othello in Salvini — there is perhaps a strain of the 
melancholy Scandinavian in English Irving. 

To be short, Orsino Saracinesca was too enthusiastic to 
be wholly cold, and too thoughtful to be thoroughly 
enthusiastic. He saw things differently according to his 
moods, and being dissatisfied, he tried to make one mood 
prevail constantly over the other. In a mean nature 
the double view often makes an untruthful individual; 
in one possessing honourable instincts it frequently leads 
to unhappiness. Affectation then becomes aspiration 
and the man’s failure to impose on others is forgotten in 
his misery at failing to impose upon himself. 

The few words Orsino had exchanged with Maria 
Consuelo on the morning of the great ceremony recalled 
vividly the pleasant hour he had spent with her ten days 


DON ORSINO. 


88 


earlier, and lie determined to see her as soon as possible. 
He was out of conceit with himself and consequently 
with all those who knew him, and he looked forward 
with pleasure to the conversation of an attractive woman 
who could have no preconceived opinion of him, and 
who could take him at his own estimate. He was curi- 
ous, too, to find out something more definite in regard to 
her. She was mysterious, and the mystery pleased him. 
She had admitted that her deceased husband had spoken 
of being connected with the Saracinesca, but he could not 
discover where the relationship lay. Spicca’s very odd 
remark, too, seemed to point to her, in some way which 
Orsino could not understand, and he remembered her 
having said that she had heard of Spicca. Her husband 
had doubtless been an Italian of Spanish descent, but 
she had given no clue to her own nationality, and she 
did not look Spanish, in spite of her name, Maria Con- 
suelo. As no one in Eome knew her it was impossible 
to get any information whatever. It was all very inter- 
esting. 

Accordingly, late on the afternoon of the second of 
January, Orsino called and was led to the door of a small 
sitting-room on the second floor of the hotel. The ser- 
vant shut the door behind him and Orsino found him- 
self alone. A lamp with a pretty shade was burning on 
the table and beside it an ugly blue glass vase contained 
a few flowers, common roses, but fresh and fragrant. 
Two or three new books in yellow paper covers lay scat- 
tered upon the hideous velvet table cloth, and beside one 
of them Orsino noticed a magnificent paper cutter of 
chiselled silver, bearing a large monogram done in 
brilliants and rubies. The thing contrasted oddly with 
its surroundings and attracted the light. An easy chair 
was drawn up to the table, an abominable object covered 
with perfectly new yellow satin. A small red morocco 
cushion, of the kind used in travelling, was balanced on 
the back, and there was a depression in it, as though 
some one’s head had lately rested there. 


84 


DON OKSINO. 


Orsino noticed all these details as he stood waiting for 
Madame d’Aranjuez to appear, and they were not with- 
out interest to him, for each one told a story, and the 
stories were contradictory. The room was not encum- 
bered with those numberless objects which most women 
scatter about them within an hour after reaching a hotel. 
Yet Madame d’Aranjuez must have been at least a 
month in Eome. The room smelt neither of perfume 
nor of cigarettes, but of the roses, which was better, 
and a little of the lamp, which was much worse. The 
lady’s only possessions seemed to be three books, a 
travelling cushion and a somewhat too gorgeous paper 
cutter; and these few objects were perfectly new. He 
glanced at the books ; they were of the latest, and only 
one had been cut. The cushion might have been bought 
that morning-. Not a breath had tarnished the polished 
blade of the silver knife. 

A door opened softly and Orsino drew himself up as 
some one pushed in the heavy, vivid curtains. But it 
was not Madame d’Aranjuez. A small dark woman of 
middle age, with downcast eyes and exceedingly black 
hair, came forward a step. 

“ The signora will come presently,” she said in Italian, 
in a very low voice, as though she were almost afraid of 
hearing herself speak. 

She was gone in a moment, as noiselessly as she had 
come. This was evidently the silent maid of whom 
Gouache had spoken. The few words she had spoken 
had revealed to Orsino the fact that she was an Italian 
from the north, for she had the unmistakable accent of 
the Piedmontese, whose own language is comprehensible 
only by themselves. 

Orsino prepared to wait some time, supposing that the 
message could hardly have been sent without an object. 
But another minute had not elapsed before Maria Con- 
suelo herself appeared. In the soft lamplight her clear 
white skin looked very pale and her auburn hair almost 
red. She wore one of those nondescript garments which 


DON ORSINO. 


85 


we have elected to call tea-gowns, and Orsino, who had 
learned to criticise dress as he had learned Latin gram- 
mar, saw that the tea-gown was good and the lace real. 
The colours produced no impression upon him whatever. 
As a matter of fact they were dark, being combined in 
various shades of olive. 

Maria Consuelo looked at her visitor and held out her 
hand, but said nothing. She did not even smile, and 
Orsino began to fancy that he had chosen an unfortunate 
moment for his visit. 

“ It was very good of you to let me come, ” he said, 
waiting for her to sit down. 

Still she said nothing. She placed the red morocco 
cushion carefully in the particular position which would 
be most comfortable, turned the shade of the lamp a 
little, which, of course, produced no change whatever in 
the direction of the light, pushed one of the books half 
across the table and at last sat down in the easy chair. 
Orsino sat down near her, holding his hat upon his knee. 
He wondered whether she had heard him speak, or 
whether she might not be one of those people who are 
painfully shy when there is no third person present. 

“I think it was very good of you to come,” she said at 
last, when she was comfortably settled. 

“I wish goodness were always so easy,” answered 
Orsino with alacrity. 

“Is it your ambition to be good?” asked Maria Con- 
suelo with a smile. 

“ It should be. But it is not a career. ” 

“Then you do not believe in Saints?” 

“Hot until they are canonised and made articles of 
belief — unless you are one, Madame.” 

“I have thought of trying it,” answered Maria Con- 
suelo, calmly. “ Saintship is a career, even in society, 
whatever you may say to the contrary. It has attrac- 
tions, after all.” 

“Hot equal to those of the other side. Every one 
admits that. The majority is evidently in favour of sin, 


86 


DON ORSINO. 


and if we are to believe in modern institutions, we must 
believe that majorities are right.” 

“ Then the hero is always wrong, for he is the enthu- 
siastic individual who is always for facing odds, and if 
no one disagrees with him he is very unhappy. Yet 
there are heroes ” 

“ Where?” asked Orsino. “The heroes people talk of 
ride bronze horses on inaccessible pedestals. When the 
bell rings for a revolution they are all knocked down and 
new ones are set up in their places — also executed by 
the best artists — and the old ones are cast into cannon 
to knock to pieces the ideas they invented. That is 
called history.” 

“You take a cheerful and encouraging view of the 
world's history, Don Orsino.” 

“ The world is made for us, and we must accept it. 
But we may criticise it. There is nothing to the con- 
trary in the contract.” 

“In the social contract? Are you going to talk to me 
about Jean- Jacques? ” 

“Have you read him, Madame?” 

“‘No woman who respects herself ' ” began Maria 

Consuelo, quoting the famous preface. 

“ I see that you have, ” said Orsino, with a laugh. “ I 
have not.” 

“ISTor I.” 

To Orsino's surprise, Madame d'Aranjuez blushed. 
He could not have told why he was pleased, nor why her 
change of colour seemed so unexpected. 

“Speaking of history,” he said, after a very slight 
pause, “ why did you thank me yesterday for having got 
you a card?” 

“Did you not speak to Gouache about it?” 

“I said something — I forget what. Did he manage 
it?” 

“ Of course. I had his wife's place. She could not 
go. Do you dislike being thanked for your good offices? 
Are you so modest as that?” 


DON ORSINO. 


87 


“Not in the least, but I hate misunderstandings, 
though I will get all the credit I can for what I have 
not done, like other people. When I saw that you knew 
the Del Derice, I thought that perhaps she had been exert- 
ing herself.” 

“ Why do you hate her so? ” asked Maria Consuelo. 

“I do not hate her. She does not exist — that is all.” 

“Why does she not exist, as you call it? She is a 
very good-natured woman. Tell me the truth. Every- 
body hates her — I saw that by the way they bowed to 
her while we were waiting — why? There must be a rea- 
son. Is she a — an incorrect person?” 

Orsino laughed. 

“No. That is the point at which existence is more 
likely to begin than to end.” 

“ How cynical you are ! I do not like that. Tell me 
about Madame Del Ferice.” 

“Very well. To begin with, she is a relation of mine.” 

“ Seriously? ” 

“ Seriously. Of course that gives me a right to handle 
the whole dictionary of abuse against her.” 

“Of course. Are you going to do that?” 

“No. You would call me cynical. I do not like you 
to call me by bad names, Madame.” 

“I had an idea that men liked it,” observed Maria 
Consuelo gravely. 

“One does not like to hear disagreeable truths.” 

“Then it is the truth? Go on. You have forgotten 
what we were talking about.” 

“ Not at all. Donna Tullia, my second, third or fourth 
cousin, was married once upon a time to a certain 
Mayer.” 

“ And left him. How interesting ! ” 

“No, Madame. He left her — very suddenly, I believe 
— for another world. Better or worse? Who can say? 
Considering his past life, worse, I suppose; but consid- 
ering that he was not obliged to take Donna Tullia 
with him, decidedly better.” 


88 


DON ORSINO. 


“You certainly hate her. Then she married Del 
Ferice.” 

“Then she married Del Ferice — before I was born. 
She is fabulously old. Mayer left her very rich, and 
without conditions. Del Ferice was an impossible per- 
son. My father nearly killed him in a duel once — also 
before I was born. I never knew what it was about. 
Del Ferice was a spy, in the old days when spies got a 
living in a Borne ” 

“ Ah ! I see it all now ! ” exclaimed Maria Consuelo. 
“ Del Ferice is white, and you are black. Of course you 
hate each other. You need not tell me any more.” 

“ How you take that for granted ! ” 

“Is it not perfectly clear? Do not talk to me of like 
and dislike when your dreadful parties have anything to 
do with either! Besides, if I had any sympathy with 
either side it would be for the whites. But the whole 
thing is absurd, complicated, mediaeval, feudal — any- 
thing you like except sensible. Your intolerance is — 
intolerable.” 

“True tolerance should tolerate even intolerance,” 
observed Orsino smartly. 

“ That sounds like one of the puzzles of pronunciation 
like ‘in un piatto poco cupo poco pepe pisto cape/” 
laughed Maria Consuelo. “ Tolerably tolerable tolerance 
tolerates tolerable tolerance intolerably -” 

“You speak Italian?” asked Orsino, surprised by her 
glib enunciation of the difficult sentence she had quoted. 
“Why are we talking a foreign language?” 

“I cannot really speak Italian. I have an Italian 
maid, who speaks French. But she taught me that 
puzzle.” 

“ It is odd — your maid is a Piedmontese and you have 
a good accent.” 

“Have I? I am very glad. But tell me, is it not 
absurd that you should hate these people as you do — you 
cannot deny it — merely because they are whites?” 

“ Everything in life is absurd if you take the opposite 


DON ORSINO. 


89 


point of view. Lunatics find endless amusement in 
watching sane people.” 

“And of course, you are the sane people,” observed 
Maria Consuelo. 

“Of course.” 

“What becomes of me? I suppose I do not exist? 
You would not be rude enough to class me with the 
lunatics.” 

“ Certainly not. You will of course choose to be a black. ” 

“In order to be discontented, as you are?” 

“ Discontented? ” 

“Yes. Are you not utterly out of sympathy with 
your surroundings? Are you not hampered at every step 
by a network of traditions which have no meaning to 
your intelligence, but which are laid on you like a har- 
ness upon a horse, and in which you are driven your 
daily little round of tiresome amusement — or dissipation? 
Do you not hate the Corso as an omnibus horse hates it? 
Do you not really hate the very faces of all those people 
who effectually prevent you from using your own intelli- 
gence, your own strength — your own heart? One sees it 
in your face. You are too young to be tired of life. 
No, I am not going to call you a boy, though I am older 
than you, Don Orsino. You will find people enough in 
your own surroundings to call you a boy — because you 
are not yet so utterly tamed and wearied as they are, 
and for no other reason. You are a man. I do not 
know your age, but you do not talk as boys do. You 
are a man — then be a man altogether, be independent — 
use your hands for something better than throwing mud 
at other people’s houses merely because they are new ! ” 

Orsino looked at her in astonishment. This was cer- 
tainly not the sort of conversation he had anticipated 
when he had entered the room. 

“You are surprised because I speak like this,” she said 
after a short pause. “You are a Saracinesca and I am 
— a stranger, here to-day and gone to-morrow, whom you 
will probably never see again. It is amusing, is it not? 
Why do you not laugh? ” 


90 


DON ORSINO. 


Maria Consuelo smiled and as usual her strong red lips 
closed as soon as she had finished speaking, a habit which 
lent the smile something unusual, half -mysterious, and 
self-contained. 

“I see nothing to laugh at,” answered Orsino. “Did 
the mythological personage whose name I have for- 
gotten laugh when the sphynx proposed the riddle to 
him?” 

“ That is the third time within the last few days that 
I have been compared to a sphynx by you or Gouache. 
It lacks originality in the end.” 

“I was not thinking of being original. I was too 
much interested. Your riddle is the problem of my 
life.” 

“ The resemblance ceases there. I cannot eat you up 
if you do not guess the answer — or if you do not take 
my advice. I am not prepared to go so far as that.” 

“Was it advice? It sounded more like a question.” 

“ I would not ask one when I am sure of getting no 
answer. Besides, I do not like being laughed at.” 

“What has that to do with the matter? Why imagine 
anything so impossible?” 

“After all — perhaps it is more foolish to say, ‘I 
advise you to do so and so/ than to ask, ‘Why do you 
not do so and so? ; Advice is always disagreeable and 
the adviser is always more or less ridiculous. Advice 
brings its own punishment.” 

“Is that not cynical?” asked Orsino. 

“No. Why? What is the worst thing you can do to 
your social enemy? Prevail upon him to give you his 
counsel, act upon it — it will of course turn out badly — 
then say, ‘ I feared this would happen, but as you ad- 
vised me I did not like ’ and so on! That is simple 

and always effectual. Try it.” 

“Not for worlds! ” 

“ I did not mean with me, ” answered Maria Consuelo 
with a laugh. 

“ No. I am afraid there are other reasons which will 


DON ORSINO. 


91 


prevent me from making a career for myself,” said 
Orsino thoughtfully. 

Maria Consuelo saw by his face that the subject was 
a serious one with him, as she had already guessed that 
it must be, and one which would always interest him. 
She therefore let it drop, keeping it in reserve in case 
the conversation flagged. 

“ I am going to see Madame Del Derice to-morrow, ” 
she observed, changing the subject. 

“Do you think that is necessary?” 

“Since I wish it! I have not your reasons for 
avoiding her.” 

“I offended you the other day, Madame, did I not? 
You remember — when I offered my services in a social 
way.” 

“hTo — you amused me,” answered Maria Consuelo 
coolly, and watching to see how he would take the re- 
buke. 

But, young as Orsino was, he was a match for her in 
self-possession. 

“I am very glad,” he answered without a trace of an- 
noyance. “I feared you were displeased.” 

Maria Consuelo smiled again, and her momentary 
coldness vanished. The answer delighted her, and did 
more to interest her in Orsino than fifty clever sayings 
could have done. She resolved to push the question a 
little further. 

“I will be frank,” she said. 

“It is always best,” answered Orsino, beginning to 
suspect that something very tortuous was coming. His 
disbelief in phrases of the kind, though originally arti- 
ficial, was becoming profound. 

“Yes, I will be quite frank,” she repeated. “You do 
not wish me to know the Del Derice and their set, and 
you do wish me to know the people you like.” 

“Evidently.” 

“Why should I not do as I please?” 

She was clearly trying to entrap him into a foolish 
answer, and he grew more and more wary. 


92 


DON ORSINO. 


“It would be very strange if you did not,” answered 
Orsino without hesitation. 

“Why, again?” 

“Because you are absolutely free to make your own 
choice.” 

“ And if my choice does not meet with your approval? ” 
she asked. 

“What can I say, Madame? I and my friends will 
be the losers, not you.” 

Orsino had kept his temper admirably, and he did not 
suffer a hasty word to escape his lips nor a shadow of 
irritation to appear in his face. Yet she had pressed 
him in a way which was little short of rude. She was 
silent for a few seconds, during which Orsino watched 
her face as she turned it slightly away from him and 
from the lamp. In reality he was wondering why she 
was not more communicative about herself, and speculat- 
ing as to whether her silence in that quarter proceeded 
from the consciousness of a perfectly assured position in 
the world, or from the fact that she had something to 
conceal ; and this idea led him to congratulate himself 
upon not having been obliged to act immediately upon 
his first proposal by bringing about an acquaintance be- 
tween Madame d’Aranjuez and his mother. This urn 
certainty lent a spice of interest to the acquaintance. 
He knew enough of the world already to be sure that 
Maria Consuelo was born and bred in that state of life 
to which it has pleased Providence to call the social 
elect. But the peculiar people sometimes do strange 
things and afterwards establish themselves in foreign 
cities where their doings are not likely to be known for 
some time. Not that Orsino cared what this particular 
stranger’s past might have been. But he knew that his 
mother would care very much indeed, if Orsino wished 
her to know the mysterious lady, and would sift the 
matter very thoroughly before asking her to the Palazzo 
Saracinesca. Donna Tullia, on the other hand, had com- 
mitted herself to the acquaintance on her own responsi- 


DON ORSINO. 


93 


bility, evidently taking it for granted that if Orsino 
knew Madame d’Aranjuez, the latter mnst be socially 
irreproachable. It amused Orsino to imagine the fat 
countess’s rage if she turned out to have made a mistake. 

“ I shall be the loser too, ” said Maria Consuelo, in a 
different tone, “ if I make a bad choice. But I cannot 
draw back. I took her to her house in my carriage. 

She seemed to take a fancy to me ” she laughed a 

little. 

Orsino smiled as though to imply that the circum- 
stance did not surprise him. 

“And she said she would come to see me. As a 
stranger I could not do less than insist upon making the 
first visit, and I named the day — or rather she did. I 
am going to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow? Tuesday is her day. You will meet all 
her friends.” 

“ Do you mean to say that people still have days in 
Borne?” Maria Consuelo did not look pleased. 

“ Some people do — very few. Most people prefer to 
be at home one evening in the week.” 

“ What sort of people are Madame Del Fence’s friends ? 71 

“ Excellent people.” 

“ Why are you so cautious ? ” 

“ Because you are about to be one of them, Madame.” 

“Am I? No, I will not begin another catechism! 
You are too clever — I shall never get a direct answer 
from you.” 

“Not in that way,” answered Orsino with a frankness 
that made his companion smile. 

“How then?” 

“I think you would knowhow,” he replied gravely, 
and he fixed his young black eyes on her with an expres- 
sion that made her half close her own. 

“ I should think you would make a good actor, ” she 
said softly. 

“ Provided that I might be allowed to be sincere be- 
tween the acts.” 


94 


DON OKSINO. 


“That sounds well. A little ambiguous perhaps. 
Your sincerity might or might not take the same direc- 
tion as the part you had been acting. ” 

“ That would depend entirely upon yourself, Madame.” 

This time Maria Consuelo opened her eyes instead of 
closing them. 

“You do not lack — what shall I say? A certain as- 
surance — you do not waste time ! ” 

She laughed merrily, and Orsino laughed with her. 

“We are between the acts now,” he said. “The cur- 
tain goes up to-morrow, and you join the enemy.” 

“Come with me, then.” 

“In your carriage? I shall be enchanted.” 

“No. You know I do not mean that. Come with me 
to the enemy’s camp. It will be very amusing.” 

Orsino shook his head. 

“ I would rather die — if possible at your feet, Madame.” 

“Are you afraid to call upon Madame Del Ferice?” 

“More than of death itself.” 

“How can you say that?” 

“The conditions of the life to come are doubtful — 
there might be a chance for me. There is no doubt at 
all as to what would happen if I went to see Madame 
Del Ferice.” 

“Is your father so severe with you?” asked Maria 
Consuelo with a little scorn. 

“Alas, Madame, I am not sensitive to ridicule,” an- 
swered Orsino, quite unmoved. “ I grant that there is 
something wanting in my character.” 

Maria Consuelo had hoped to find a weak point, and 
had failed, though indeed there were many in the young 
man’s armour. She was a little annoyed, both at her 
own lack of judgment and because it would have amused 
her to see Orsino in an element so unfamiliar to him as 
that in which Donna Tullia lived. 

“ And there is nothing which would induce you to go 
there?” she asked. 

“At present — nothing,” Orsino answered coldly. 


DON ORSINO. 


95 


“ At present — but in the future of all possible possibil- 
ities?” 

“ I shall undoubtedly go there. It is only the unfore- 
seen which invariably happens.” 

“I think so too.” 

“ Of course. I will illustrate the proverb by bidding 
you good evening,” said Orsino, laughing as he rose. 
“By this time the conviction must have formed itself in 
your mind that I was never going. The unforeseen hap- 
pens. I go.” 

Maria Consuelo would have been glad if he had stayed 
even longer, for he amused her and interested her, and 
she did not look forward with pleasure to the lonely 
evening she was to spend in the hotel. 

“I am generally at home at this hour,” she said, giv- 
ing him her hand. 

“Then, if you will allow me? Thanks. Good even- 
ing, Madame.” 

Their eyes met for a moment, and then Orsino left the 
room. As he lit his cigarette in the porch of the hotel, 
he said to himself that he had not wasted his hour, and 
he was pleasantly conscious of that inward and spiritual 
satisfaction which every very young man feels when he 
is aware of having appeared at his best in the society of 
a woman alone. Youth without vanity is only prema- 
ture old age after all. 

“She is certainly more than pretty,” he said to him- 
self, affecting to be critical when he was indeed con- 
vinced. “ Her mouth is fabulous, but it is well shaped 
and the rest is perfect — no, the nose is insignificant, and 
one of those yellow eyes wanders a little. These are not 
perfections. But what does it matter? The whole 
is charming, whatever the parts may be. I wish she 
would not go to that horrible fat woman’s tea to- 
morrow. ” 

Such were the observations which Orsino thought fit 
to make to himself, but which by no means represented 
all that he felt, for they took no notice whatever of that 


96 


DON OESINO. 


extreme satisfaction at having talked well with Maria 
Consuelo, which in reality dominated every other sensa- 
tion just then. He was well enough accustomed to con- 
sideration, though his only taste of society had been 
enjoyed during the winter vacations of the last two 
years. He was not the greatest match in the Roman 
matrimonial market for nothing, and he was perfectly 
well aware of his advantages in this respect. He 
possessed that keen, business-like appreciation of his 
value as a marriageable man which seems to characterise 
the young generation of to-day, and he was not mistaken 
in his estimate. It was made sufficiently clear to him 
at every turn that he had but to ask in order to receive. 
But he had not the slightest intention of marrying at one 
and twenty as several of his old school-fellows were 
doing, and he was sensible enough to foresee that his 
position as a desirable son-in-law would soon cause him 
more annoyance than amusement. 

Madame d’Aranjuez was doubtless aware that she 
could not marry him if she wished to do so. She was 
several years older than he — he admitted the fact rather 
reluctantly — she was a widow, and she seemed to have 
no particular social position. These were excellent 
reasons against matrimony, but they were also equally 
excellent reasons for being pleased with himself at hav- 
ing produced a favourable impression on her. 

He walked rapidly along the crowded street, glancing 
carelessly at the people who passed and at the brilliantly 
lighted windows of the shops. He passed the door of 
the club, where he was already becoming known for 
rather reckless play, and he quite forgot that a number 
of men were probably spending an hour at the tables 
before dinner, a fact which would hardly have escaped 
his memory if he had not been more than usually occu- 
pied with pleasant thoughts. He did not need the ex- 
citement of baccarat nor the stimulus of brandy and 
soda, for his brain was already both excited and stimu- 
lated, though he was not at once aware of it. But it be- 


DON ORSINO. 


97 


came clear to him when he suddenly found himself 
standing before the steps of the Capitol in the gloomy 
square of the Ara Coeli, wondering what in the world 
had brought him so far out of his way. 

“ What a fool I am ! ” he exclaimed impatiently, as he 
turned back and walked in the direction of his home. 
“ And yet she told me that I would make a good actor. 
They say that an actor should never be carried away by 
his part.” 

At dinner that evening he was alternately talkative 
and very silent. 

“ Where have you been to-day, Orsino?” asked his 
father, looking at him curiously. 

“ I spent half an hour with Madame d' Aranjuez, and 
then went for a walk,” answered Orsino with sudden in- 
difference. 

“What is she like?” asked Corona. 

“Clever — at least in Rome.” There was an odd, 
nervous sharpness about the answer. 

Old Saracinesca raised his keen eyes without lifting 
his head and looked hard at his grandson. He was a 
little bent in his great old age. 

“ The boy is in love ! ” he exclaimed abruptly, and a 
laugh that was still deep and ringing followed the words. 
Orsino recovered his self-possession and smiled carelessly. 

Corona was thoughtful during the remainder of the 
meal. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The Princess Sant’ Dario's early life had been deeply 
stirred by the great makers of human character, sorrow 
and happiness. She had suffered profoundly, she had 
borne her trials with a rare courage, and her reward, if 
one may call it so, had been very great. She had seen 
the world and known it well, and the knowledge had not 

H 


98 


DON ORSINO. 


been forgotten in the peaceful prosperity of later years. 
Gifted with a beauty not equalled, perhaps, in those 
times, endowed with a strong and passionate nature 
under a singularly cold and calm outward manner, she 
had been saved from many dangers by the rarest of com- 
monplace qualities, common sense. She had never passed 
for an intellectual person, she had never been very 
brilliant in conversation, she had even been thought old- 
fashioned in her prejudices concerning the books she 
read. But her judgment had rarely failed her at critical 
moments. Once only, she remembered having committed 
a great mistake, of which the sudden and unexpected con- 
sequences had almost wrecked her life. But in that case 
she had suffered her heart to lead her, an innocent girl’s 
good name had been at stake, and she had rashly taken a 
responsibility too heavy for love itself to bear. Those 
days were long past now; twenty years separated Corona, 
the mother of four tall sons, from the Corona who had 
risked all to save poor little Faustina Montevarchi. 

But even she knew that a state of such perpetual and 
unclouded happiness could hardly last a lifetime, and 
she had forced herself, almost laughing at the thought, 
to look forward to the day when Orsino must cease to 
be a boy and must face the world of strong loves and 
hates through which most men have to pass, and which 
all men must have known in order to be men indeed. 

The people whose lives are full of the most romantic 
incidents, are not generally, I think, people of romantic 
disposition. Bomance, like power, will come uncalled 
for, and those who seek it most, are often those who find 
it least. And the reason is simple enough. The man of 
heart is not perpetually burrowing in his surroundings 
for affections upon which his heart may feed, any more 
than the very strong man is naturally impelled to lift 
every weight he sees or to fight with every man he 
meets. The persons whom others call romantic are 
rarely conscious of being so. They are generally far too 
much occupied with the one great thought which makes 


DON ORSINO. 


99 


their strongest, bravest and meanest actions seem per- 
fectly commonplace to themselves. Corona Del Carmine, 
who had heroically sacrificed herself in her earliest girl- 
hood to save her father from ruin and who a few years 
later had risked a priceless happiness to shield a foolish 
girl, had not in her whole life been conscious of a single 
romantic instinct. Brave, devoted, but unimaginative 
by nature, she had followed her heart’s direction in most 
worldly matters. 

She was amazed to find that she was becoming roman- 
tic now, in her dreams for Orsino’s future. All sorts of 
ideas which she would have laughed at in her own youth 
flitted through her brain from morning till night. Her 
fancy built up a life for her eldest son, which she knew 
to be far from the possibility of realisation, but which 
had for her a new and strange attraction. 

She planned for him the most unimaginable happi- 
ness, of a kind which would perhaps have hardly satis- 
fied his more modern instincts. She saw a maiden of 
indescribable beauty, brought up in unapproachable per- 
fections, guarded by the all but insuperable jealousy of 
an ideal home. Orsino was to love this vision, and none 
other, from the first meeting to the term of his natural 
life, and was to win her in the face of difficulties such 
as would have made even Giovanni, the incomparable, 
look grave. This radiant creature was also to love 
Orsino, as a matter of course, with a love vastly more 
angelic than human, but not hastily nor thoughtlessly, 
lest Orsino should get her too easily and not value her 
as he ought. Then she saw the two betrothed, side by 
side on shady lawns and moonlit terraces, in a perfectly 
beautiful intimacy such as they would certainly never 
enjoy in the existing conditions of their own societ} x . 
But that mattered little. The wooing, the winning and 
the marrying of the exquisite girl were to make up 
Orsino’ s life, and fifty or sixty years of idyllic happi- 
ness were to be the reward of their mutual devotion. 
Had she not spent twenty such years herself? Then 
why should not all the rest be possible? 


100 


DON ORSINO. 


The dreams came and went and she was too sensible 
not to laugh at them. That was not the youth of 
Giovanni, her husband, nor of men who even faintly 
resembled him in her estimation. Giovanni had wan- 
dered far, had seen much, and had undoubtedly indulged 
more than one passing affection, before he had been 
thirty years of age and had loved Corona. Giovanni 
would laugh too, if she told him of her vision of two 
young and beautiful married saints. And his laugh 
would be more sincere than her own. Nevertheless, her 
dreams haunted her, as they have haunted many a lov- 
ing mother, ever since Althaea plucked from the dame 
the burning brand that measured Meleager’s life, and 
smothered the sparks upon it and hid it away among her 
treasures. 

Such things seem foolish, no doubt, in the measure of 
fact, in the glaring light of our day. The thought is 
none the less noble. The dream of an untainted love, 
the vision of unspotted youth and pure maiden, the glory 
of unbroken faith kept whole by man and wife in holy 
wedlock, the pride of stainless name and stainless race 
— these things are not less high because there is a sub- 
limity in the strength of a great sin which may lie the 
closer to our sympathy, as the sinning is the nearer to 
our weakness. 

When old Saracinesca looked up from under his bushy 
brows and laughed and said that his grandson was in 
love, he thought no more of what he said than if he had 
remarked that Orsino’s beard was growing or that Gio- 
vanni’s was turning grey. But Corona’s pretty fancies 
received a shock from which they never recovered again, 
and though she did her best to call them back they lost 
all their reality from that hour. The plain fact that at 
one and twenty years the boy is a man, though a very 
young one, was made suddenly clear to her, and she was 
faced by another fact still more destructive of her ideals, 
namely, that a man is not to be kept from falling in love, 
when and where he is so inclined, by any personal in- 


DON ORSINO. 


101 


fluence whatsoever. She knew that well enough, and 
the supposition that his first young passion might be 
for Madame d’Aranjuez was by no means comforting. 
Corona immediately felt an interest in that lady which 
she had not felt before and which was not altogether 
friendly. 

It seemed to her necessary in the first place to find out 
something definite concerning Maria Consuelo, and this 
was no easy matter. She communicated her wish to her 
husband when they were alone that evening. 

“I know nothing about her,” answered Giovanni. 
“ And I do not know any one who does. After all it is 
of very little importance.” 

“ What if he falls seriously in love with this woman? ” 

“We will send him round the world. At his age that 
will cure anything. When he comes back Madame 
d’Aranjuez will have retired to the chaos of the un- 
known out of which Orsino has evolved her.” 

“ She does not look the kind of woman to disappear at 
the right moment,” observed Corona doubtfully. 

Giovanni was at that moment supremely comfortable, 
both in mind and body. It was late. The old prince 
had gone to his own quarters, the boys were in bed, and 
Orsino was presumably at a party or at the club. Sant’ 
Ilario was enjoying the delight of spending an hour 
alone in his wife’s society. They were in Corona’s old 
boudoir, a place full of associations for them both. He 
did not want to be mentally disturbed. He said nothing 
in answer to his wife’s remark. She repeated it in a 
different form. 

“Women like her do not disappear when one does not 
want them,” she said. 

“What makes you think so?” inquired Giovanni with 
a man’s irritating indolence when he does not mean to 
grasp a disagreeable idea. 

“I know it,” Corona answered, resting her chin upon 
her hand and staring at the fire. 

Giovanni surrendered unconditionally. 


102 


DON ORSINO. 


“ You are probably right, dear. You always are about 
people.” 

“ Well — then you must see the importance of what I 
say,” said Corona pushing her victory. 

“ Of course, of course,” answered Giovanni, squinting 
at the flames with one eye between his outstretched 
fingers. 

“ I wish you would wake up ! ” exclaimed Corona, 
taking the hand in hers and drawing it to her. “ Orsino 
is probably making love to Madame d’Aranjuez at this 
very moment.” 

“ Then I will imitate him, and make love to you, my 
dear. I could not be better occupied, and you know it. 
You used to say I did it very well.” 

Corona laughed in her deep, soft voice. 

“ Orsino is like you. That is what frightens me. He 
will make love too well. Be serious, Giovanni. Think 
of what I am saying.” 

“Let us dismiss the question then, for the simple 
reason that there is absolutely nothing to be done. We 
cannot turn this good woman out of Borne, and we can- 
not lock Orsino up in his room. To tell a boy not to 
bestow his affections in a certain quarter is like ramming 
a charge into a gun and then expecting that it will not 
come out by the same way. The harder you ram it 
down the more noise it makes — that is all. Encourage 
him and he may possibly tire of it. Hinder him and he 
will become inconveniently heroic.” 

“ I suppose that is true,” said Corona. “ Then at least 
find out who the woman is,” she added, after a pause. 

“ I will try, ” Giovanni answered. “ I will even go to 
the length of spending an hour a day at the club, if that 
will do any good — and you know how I detest clubs. 
But if anything whatever is known of her, it will be 
known there.” 

Giovanni kept his word and expended more energy in 
attempting to find out something about Madame d’Aran- 
juez during the next few days than he had devoted to 


DON ORSINO. 


103 


anything connected with society for a long time. Nearly 
a week elapsed before his efforts met with any success. 

He was in the club one afternoon at an early hour, 
reading the papers, and not more than three or four 
other men were present. Among them were Frangipani 
and Montevarchi, who was formerly known as Ascanio 
Bellegra. There was also a certain young foreigner, a 
diplomatist, who, like Sant’ Ilario, was reading a paper, 
most probably in search of an idea for the next visit on 
his list. 

Giovanni suddenly came upon a description of a din- 
ner and reception given by Del Ferice and his wife. 
The paragraph was written in the usual florid style with 
a fine generosity in the distribution of titles to unknown 
persons. 

“ The centre of all attraction, ” said the reporter, “ was 
a most beautiful Spanish princess, Donna Maria Consuelo 
d’A z d’A a, in whose mysterious eyes are re- 

flected the divine fires of a thousand triumphs, and who 
was gracefully attired in olive green brocade ” 

“Oh! Is that it?” said Sant’ Ilario aloud, and in the 
peculiar tone always used by a man who makes a dis- 
covery in a daily paper. 

“What is it?” inquired Frangipani and Montevarchi 
in the same breath. The young diplomatist looked up 
with an air of interrogation. 

Sant ? Ilario read the paragraph aloud. All three 
listened as though the fate of empires depended on the 
facts reported. 

“Just like the newspapers!” exclaimed Frangipani. 
“There probably is no such person. Is there, As- 
canio? ” 

Montevarchi had always been a weak fellow, and was 
reported to be at present very deep in the building 
speculations of the day. But there was one point upon 
which he justly prided himself. He was a superior 
authority on genealogy. It was his passion and no one 
ever disputed his knowledge or decision. He stroked 


104 


DON ORSINO. 


his fair beard, looked out of the window, winked his 
pale blue eyes once or twice and then gave his verdict. 

“ There is no such person,” he said gravely. 

“ I beg your pardon, prince, ” said the young diploma- 
tist, “I have met her. She exists.” 

“My dear friend,” answered Montevarchi, “I do not 
doubt the existence of the woman, as such, and I would 
certainly not think of disagreeing with you, even if I 
had the slightest ground for doing so, which, I hasten 
to say, I have not. Nor, of course, if she is a friend of 
yours, would I like to say more on the subject. But I 
have taken some little interest in genealogy and I have 
a modest library — about two thousand volumes, only — 
consisting solely of works on the subject, all of which I 
have read and many of which I have carefully annotated. 
I need not say that they are all at your disposal if you 
should desire to make any researches.” 

Montevarchi had much of his murdered father’s man- 
ner, without the old man’s strength. The young secre- 
tary of embassy was rather startled at the idea of 
searching through two thousand volumes in pursuit of 
Madame d’Aranjuez’s identity. Sant’ Ilario laughed. 

“ I only mean that I have met the lady, ” said the young 
man. “ Of course you are right. I have no idea who 
she may really be. I have heard odd stories about her.” 

“Oh — have you?” asked Sant’ Ilario with renewed 
interest. 

“ Yes, very odd.” He paused and looked round the 
room to assure himself that no one else was present. 
“ There are two distinct stories about her. The first is 
this. They say that she is a South American prima 
donna, who sang only a few months, at Rio de Janeiro 
and then at Buenos Ayres. An Italian who had gone 
out there and made a fortune married her from the stage. 
In coming to Europe, he unfortunately fell overboard 
and she inherited all his money. People say that she 
was the only person who witnessed the accident. The 
man’s name was Aragno. She twisted it once and made 


DON ORSINO. 


105 


Aranjuez of it, and she turned it again and discovered 
that it spelled Aragona. That is the first story. It 
sounds well at all events.” 

“Very,” said Sant’ Ilario, with a laugh. 

“A profoundly interesting page in genealogy, if she 
happens to marry somebody,” observed Montevarchi, 
mentally noting all the facts. 

“What is the other story?” asked Frangipani. 

“The other story is much less concise and detailed. 
According to this version, she is the daughter of a cer- 
tain royal personage and of a Polish countess. There is 
always a Polish countess in those stories ! She was never 
married. The royal personage has had her educated in 
a convent and has sent her out into the wide world with 
a pretty fancy name of his own invention, plentifully 
supplied with money and regular documents referring to 
her union with the imaginary Aranjuez, and protected 
by a sort of body-guard of mutes and duennas who never 
appear in public. She is of course to make a great 
match for herself, and has come to Borne to do it. That 
is also a pretty tale.” 

“More interesting than the other,” said Montevarchi. 
“These side lights of genealogy, these stray rivulets of 
royal races, if I may so poetically call them, possess an 
absorbing interest for the student. I will make a note 
of it.” 

“ Of course, I do not vouch for the truth of a single 
word in either story,” observed the young man. “Of 
the two the first is the less improbable. I have met her 
and talked to her and she is certainly not less than five 
and twenty years old. She may be more. In any case 
she is too old to have been just let out of a convent.” 

“ Perhaps she has been loose for some years, ” observed 
Sant’ Ilario, speaking of her as though she were a dan- 
gerous wild animal. 

“We should have heard of her,” objected the other. 
“ She has the sort of personality which is noticed any- 
where and which makes itself felt.” 


106 


DON ORSINO. 


“ Then yon incline to the belief that she dropped the 
Signor Aragno quietly overboard in the neighbourhood 
of the equator? ” 

“ The real story may be quite different from either of 
those I have told you.” 

“ And she is a friend of poor old Donna Tullia! ” ex- 
claimed Montevarchi regretfully. “ I am sorry for that. 
For the sake of her history I could almost have gone to 
the length of making her acquaintance.” 

“ How the Del Ferice would rave if she could hear you 
call her poor old Donna Tullia,” observed Frangipani. 
“ I remember how she danced at the ball when I came of 
age ! ” 

“ That was a long time ago, Filippo, ” said Montevarchi 
thoughtfully, “ a very long time ago. We were all young 
once, Filippo — but Donna Tullia is really only fit to fill 
a glass case in a museum of natural history now.” 

The remark was not original, and had been in circula- 
tion some time. But the three men laughed a little and 
Montevarchi was much pleased by their appreciation. 
He and Frangipani began to talk together, and Sant* 
Ilario took up his paper again. When the young diplo- 
matist laid his own aside and went out, Giovanni fol- 
lowed him, and they left the club together. 

“ Have you any reason to believe that there is any- 
thing irregular about this Madame d’Aranjuez?” asked 
Sant’ Ilario. 

“No. Stories of that kind are generally inventions. 
She has not been presented at Court — but that means 
nothing here. And there is a doubt about her nation- 
ality — but no one has asked her directly about it.” 

“May I ask who told you the stories?” 

The young man’s face immediately lost all expression. 

“Really — I have quite forgotten,” he said. “People 
have been talking about her.” 

Sant* Ilario justly concluded that his companion’s in- 
formant was a lady, and probably one in whom the di- 
plomatist was interested. Discretion is so rare that it 


DON ORSINO. 


107 


can easily be traced to its causes. Giovanni left the 
young man and walked away in the opposite direction, 
inwardly meditating a piece of diplomacy quite foreign 
to his nature. He said to himself that he would watch 
the man in the world and that it would be easy to guess 
who the lady in question was. It would have been clear 
to any one but himself that he was not likely to learn 
anything worth knowing, by his present mode of pro- 
cedure. 

“ Gouache,” he said, entering the artist’s studio a 
quarter of an hour later, “ do you know anything about 
Madame d’Aranjuez? ” 

“That is all I know,” Gouache answered, pointing to 
Maria Consuelo’s portrait which stood finished upon an 
easel before him, set in an old frame. He had been 
touching it when Giovanni entered. “ That is all I know, 
and I do not know that thoroughly. I wish I did. She 
is a wonderful subject.” 

Sant’ Ilario gazed at the picture in silence. 

“Are her eyes really like these?” he asked at length. 

“Much finer.” 

“And her mouth?” 

“Much larger,” answered Gouache with a smile. 

“She is bad,” said Giovanni with conviction, and he 
thought of the Signor Aragno. 

“Women are never bad,” observed Gouache with a 
thoughtful air. “Some are less angelic than others. 
You need only tell them all so to assure yourself of the 
fact.” 

“I daresay. What is this person? French, Spanish 
— South American?” 

“ I have not the least idea. She is not French, at all 
events.” 

“Excuse me — does your wife know her?” 

Gouache glanced quickly at his visitor’s face. 

“Ho.” 

Gouache was a singularly kind man, and he did his 
best, perhaps for reasons of his own, to convey nothing 


108 


DON ONSINO. 


by the monosyllable beyond the simple negation of a 
fact. But the effort was not altogether successful. 
There was an almost imperceptible shade of surprise in 
the tone which did not escape Giovanni. On the other 
hand it was perfectly clear to Gouache that Sant’ Ilario’s 
interest in the matter was connected with Orsino. 

“ I cannot find any one who knows anything definite, ” 
said Giovanni after a pause. 

“Have you tried Spicca?” asked the artist, examining 
his work critically. 

“Ho. Why Spicca?” 

“He always knows everything,” answered Gouache 
vaguely. “By the way, Saracinesca, do you not think 
there might be a little more light just over the left eye? ” 

“How should I know?” 

“You ought to know. What is the use of having been 
brought up under the very noses of original portraits, 
all painted by the best masters and doubtless ordered by 
your ancestors at a very considerable expense — if you 
do not know? ” 

Giovanni laughed. 

“My dear old friend,” he said good-humouredly, 
“ have you known us nearly five and twenty years with- 
out discovering that it is our peculiar privilege to be 
ignorant without reproach?” 

Gouache laughed in his turn. 

“You do not often make sharp remarks — but when 
you do ! ” 

Giovanni left the studio very soon, and went in search 
of Spicca. It was no easy matter to find the peripatetic 
cynic on a winter’s afternoon, but Gouache’s remark had 
seemed to mean something, and Sant’ Ilario saw a faint 
glimmer of hope in the distance. He knew Spicca’s 
habits very well, and was aware that when the sun was 
low he would certainly turn into one of the many houses 
where he was intimate, and spend an hour over a cup of 
tea. The difficulty lay in ascertaining which particular 
fireside he would select on that afternoon. Giovanni 


DON ORSINO. 


109 


hastily sketched a route for himself and asked the porter 
at each of his friends’ houses if Spicca had entered. 
Fortune favoured him at last. Spicca was drinking his 
tea with the Marchesa di San G-iacinto. 

Giovanni paused a moment before the gateway of the 
palace in which San Giacinto had inhabited a large hired 
apartment for many years. He did not see much of his 
cousin, now, on account of differences in political opin- 
ion, and he had no reason whatever for calling on Flavia, 
especially as formal New Year’s visits had lately been 
exchanged. However, as San Giacinto was now a lead- 
ing authority on questions of landed property in the city, 
it struck him that he could pretend a desire to see 
Flavia’ s husband, and make that an excuse for staying a 
long time, if necessary, in order to wait for him. 

He found Flavia and Spicca alone together, with a 
small tea-table between them. The air was heavy with 
the smoke of cigarettes, which clung to the oriental cur- 
tains and hung in clouds about the rare palms and plants. 
Everything in the San Giacinto house was large, com- 
fortable and unostentatious. There was not a chair to 
be seen which might not have held the giant’s frame. 
San Giacinto was a wonderful judge of what was good. 
If he paid twice as much as Montevarchi for a horse, the 
horse turned out to be capable of four times the work. 
If he bought a picture at a sale, it was discovered to be 
by some good master and other people wondered why 
they had lost courage in the bidding for a trifle of a 
hundred francs. Nothing ever turned out badly with 
him, but no success had the power to shake his solid 
prudence. No one knew how rich he was, but those who 
had watched him understood that he would never let the 
world guess at half his fortune. He was a giant in all 
ways and he had shown what he could do when he had 
dominated Flavia during the first year of their marriage. 
She had at first been proud of him, but about the time 
when she would have wearied of another man, she dis- 
covered that she feared him in a way she certainly did 


110 


DON ORSINO. 


not fear the devil. Yet he had never spoken a harsh 
word to her in his life. But there was something posi- 
tively appalling to her in his enormous strength, rarely 
exhibited and never without good reason, but always 
quietly present, as the outline of a vast mountain re- 
flected in a placid lake. Then she discovered to her 
great surprise that he really loved her, which she had 
not expected, and at the end of three years he became 
aware that she loved him, which was still more astonish- 
ing. As usual, his investment had turned out well. 

At the time of which I am speaking Flavia was a 
slight, graceful woman of forty years or thereabouts, 
retaining much of the brilliant prettiness which served 
her for beauty, and conspicuous always for her ex- 
tremely bright eyes. She was of the type of women who 
live to a great age. 

She had not expected to see Sant’ Ilario, and as she gave 
her hand, she looked up at him with an air of inquiry. 
It would have been like him to say that he had come to 
see her husband and not herself, for he had no tact with 
persons whom he did not especially like. There are 
such people in the world. 

“Will you give me a cup of tea, Flavia?” he asked, 
as he sat down, after shaking hands with Spicca. 

“Have you at last heard that your cousin’s tea is 
good?” inquired the latter, who was surprised by 
Giovanni’s coming. 

“I am afraid it is cold,” said Flavia, looking into the 
teapot, as though she could discover the temperature by 
inspection. 

“It is no matter,” answered Giovanni absently. 

He was wondering how he could lead the conversation 
to the discussion of Madame d’Aranjuez. 

“You belong to the swallowers,” observed Spicca, 
lighting a fresh cigarette. “You swallow something, no 
matter what, and you are satisfied.” 

“It is the simplest way — one is never disappointed.” 

“ It is a pity one cannot swallow people in the same 
way,” said Flavia with a laugh. 


DON ORSINO. 


Ill 


“Most people do,” answered Spicca viciously. 

“Were you at the Jubilee on the first day?” asked 
Giovanni, addressing Flavia. 

“Of course I was — and you spoke to me.” 

“ That is true. By the bye, I saw that excellent Donna 
Tullia there. I wonder whose ticket she had.” 

“ She had the Princess Befana’s,” answered Spicca, who 
knew everything. “ The old lady happened to be dying 
— she always dies at the beginning of the season — it used 
to be for economy, but it has become a habit — and so 
Del Ferice bought her card of her servant for his wife.” 

“Who was the lady who sat with her?” asked Gio- 
vanni, delighted with his own skill. 

“You ought to know!” exclaimed Flavia. “We all 
saw Orsino take her out. That is the famous, the in- 
comparable Madame d’Aranjuez — the most beautiful of 
Spanish princesses according to to-day’s paper. I dare- 
say you have seen the account of the Del Ferice party. 
She is no more Spanish than Alexander the Great. Is 
she, Spicca?” 

“No, she is not Spanish,” answered the latter. 

“Then what in the world is she?” asked Giovanni im- 
patiently. 

“How should I know? Of course it is very disagree- 
able for you.” It was Flavia who spoke. 

“ Disagreeable ? How ? ” 

“ Why, about Orsino of course. Everybody says he is 
devoted to her.” 

“I wish everybody would mind his and her busi- 
ness,” said Giovanni sharply. “Because a boy makes 
the acquaintance of a stranger at a studio ” 

“Oh — it was at a studio? I did not know that.” 

“Yes, at Gouache’s — I fancied your sister might have 
told you that, ” said Giovanni, growing more and more 
irritable, and yet not daring to change the subject, lest 
he should lose some valuable information. “Because 
Orsino makes her acquaintance accidentally, every one 
must say that he is in love with her.” 

Flavia laughed. 


112 


DON ORSINO. 


“ My dear Giovanni, ” she answered. “ Let ns be frank. 
I used never to tell the truth under any circumstances, 
when I was a girl, but Giovanni — my Giovanni — did not 
like that. Do you know what he did? He used to cut 
off a hundred francs of my allowance for every fib I 
told — laughing at me all the time. At the end of the 
first quarter I positively had not a pair of shoes, and 
all my gloves had been cleaned twice. He used to keep 
all the fines in a special pocket-book — if you knew how 
hard I tried to steal it! But I could not. Then, of 
course, I reformed. There was nothing else to be done 
— that or rags — fancy ! And do you know ? I have grown 
quite used to being truthful. Besides, it is so original, 
that I pose with it.” 

Flavia paused, laughed a little, and puffed at her 
cigarette. 

“You do not often come to see me, Giovanni,” she 
said, “ and since you are here I am going to tell you the 
truth about your visit. You are beside yourself with 
rage at Orsino’s new fancy, and you want to find out all 
about this Madame d’Aranjuez. So you came here, 
because we are Whites and you saw that she had been 
at the Del Ferice party, and you know that we know 
them — and the rest is sung b} r the organ, as we say when 
high mass is over. Is that the truth, or not? ” 

“ Approximately, ” said Giovanni, smiling in spite of 
himself. 

“ Does Corona cut your allowance when you tell fibs ? ” 
asked Flavia. “No? Then why say that it is only 
approximately true? ” 

“I have my reasons. And you can tell me nothing?” 

“Nothing. I believe Spicca knows all about her. 
But he will not tell what he knows.” 

Spicca made no answer to this, and Giovanni deter- 
mined to outstay him, or rather, to stay until he rose to 
go and then go with him. It was tedious work for he 
was not a man who could talk against time on all occa- 
sions. But he struggled bravely and Spicca at last got 


DON ORSINO. 


113 


up from his deep chair. They went out together, and 
stopped as though by common consent upon the brilliantly 
lighted landing of the first floor. 

“ Seriously, Spicca,” said G-iovanni, “I am afraid 
Orsino is falling in love with this pretty stranger. If 
you can tell me anything about her, please do so.” 

Spicca stared at the wall, hesitated a moment, and 
then looked straight into his companion’s eyes. 

“ Have you any reason to suppose that I, and I es- 
pecially, know anything about this lady?” he asked. 

“No — except that you know everything.” 

“That is a fable.” Spicca turned from him and began 
to descend the stairs. 

Giovanni followed and laid a hand upon his arm. 

“ You will noi~do me this service? ” he asked earnestly. 

Again Spicca stopped and looked at him. 

“You and I are very old friends, Giovanni,” he said- 
slowly. “I am older than you, but we have stood by 
each other very often — in places more slippery than 
these marble steps. Do not let us quarrel now, old 
friend. When I tell you that my omniscience exists 
only in the vivid imaginations of people whose tea I like, 
believe me, and if you wish to do me a kindness — for 
the sake of old times — do not help to spread the idea 
that I know everything.” 

The melancholy Spicca had never been given to talk- 
ing about friendship or its mutual obligations. Indeed, 
Giovanni could not remember having ever heard him 
speak as he had just spoken. It was perfectly clear 
that he knew something very definite about Maria Con- 
suelo, and he probably had no intention of deceiving 
Giovanni in that respect. But Spicca also knew his 
man, and he knew that his appeal for Giovanni’s 
silence would not be vain. 

“Very well,” said Sant’ Ilario. 

They exchanged a few indifferent words before part- 
ing, and then Giovanni walked slowly homeward, pon- 
dering on the things he had heard that day. 

i 


114 


DON ORSINO. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

While Giovanni was exerting himself to little purpose 
in attempting to gain information concerning Maria 
Consuelo, she had launched herself upon the society of 
which the Countess Del Ferice was an important and in- 
fluential member. Chance, and probably chance alone, 
had guided her in the matter of this acquaintance, for it 
could certainly not be said that she had forced herself 
upon Donna Tullia, nor even shown any uncommon 
readiness to meet the latter’s advances. The offer of a 
seat in her carriage had seemed natural enough, under 
the circumstances, and Donna Tullia had been perfectly 
free to refuse it if she had chosen to do so. 

Though possessing but the very slightest grounds for 
believing herself to be a born diplomatist, the Countess 
had always delighted in petty plotting and scheming. 
She now saw a possibility of annoying all Orsino’s rela- 
tions by attracting the object of Orsino’s devotion to her 
own house. She had no especial reason for supposing 
that the young man was really very much in love with 
Madame d’Aranjuez, but her woman’s instinct, which 
far surpassed her diplomatic talents in acuteness, told 
her that Orsino was certainly not indifferent to the in- 
teresting stranger. She argued, primitively enough, 
that to annoy Orsino must be equivalent to annoying his 
people, and she supposed that she could do nothing more 
disagreeable to the young man’s wishes than to induce 
Madame d’Aranjuez to join that part of society from 
which all the Saracinesca were separated by an insuper- 
able barrier. 

And Orsino indeed resented the proceeding, as she had 
expected; but his family were at first more inclined to 
look upon Donna Tullia as a good angel who had carried 
off the tempter at the right moment to an unapproach- 
able distance. It was not to be believed that Orsino 


DON ORSINO. 


115 


could do anything so monstrous as to enter Del Fence’s 
house or ask a place in Del Fence’s circle, and it was 
accordingly a relief to find that Madame d’Aranjuez had 
definitely chosen to do so, and had appeared in olive- 
green brocade at the Del Fence’s last party. The olive- 
green brocade would now assuredly not figure in the 
gatherings of the Saracinesca’s intimate friends. 

Like every one else, Orsino read the daily chronicle of 
Roman life in the papers, and until he saw Maria Con- 
suelo’s name among the Del Fence’s guests, he refused 
to believe that she had taken the irrevocable step he so 
much feared. He had still entertained vague notions of 
bringing about a meeting between her and his mother, 
and he saw at a glance that such a meeting was now 
quite out of the question. This was the first severe 
shock his vanity had ever received and he was surprised 
at the depth of his own annoyance. Maria Consuelo 
might indeed have been seen once with Donna Tullia, 
and might have gone once to the latter’s day. That was 
bad enough, but might be remedied by tact and decision 
in her subsequent conduct. But there was no salvation 
possible after a person had been advertised in the daily 
paper as Madame d’Aranjuez had been. Orsino was very 
angry. He had been once to see her since his first visit, 
and she had said nothing about this invitation, though 
Donna Tullia’s name had been mentioned. He was 
offended with her for not telling him that she was going 
to the dinner, as though he had any right to be made 
acquainted with her intentions. He had no sooner made 
the discovery than he determined to visit his anger upon 
her, and throwing the paper aside went straight to the 
hotel where she was stopping. 

Maria Consuelo was at home and he was ushered into 
the little sitting-room without delay. To his inexpres- 
sible disgust he found Del Ferice himself installed upon 
the chair near the table, engaged in animated conversa- 
tion with Madame d’Aranjuez. The situation was awk- 
ward in the extreme. Orsino hoped that Del Ferice 


116 


DON ORSINO. 


would go at once, and thus avoid the necessity of an in- 
troduction. But XJgo did nothing of the kind. He 
rose, indeed, but did not take his hat from the table, and 
stood smiling pleasantly while Orsino shook hands with 
Maria Consuelo. 

“ Let me make you acquainted, ” she said with exasper- 
ating calmness, and she named the two men to each other. 

Ugo put out his hand quietly and Orsino was obliged 
to take it, which he did coldly enough. Ugo had more 
than his share of tact, and he never made a disagreeable 
impression upon any one if he could help it. Maria 
Consuelo seemed to take everything for granted, and 
Orsino ’s appearance did not disconcert her in the slight- 
est degree. Both men sat down and looked at her as 
though expecting that she would choose a subject of con- 
versation for them. 

“We were talking of the change in Borne,” she said. 
“ Monsieur Del Ferice takes a great interest in all that is 
doing, and he was explaining to me some of the difficul- 
ties with which he has to contend.” 

“Don Orsino knows what they are, as well as I, though 
we might perhaps differ as to the way of dealing with 
them,” said Del Ferice. 

“Yes,” answered Orsino, more coldly than was neces- 
sary. “You play the active part, and we the passive.” 

“In a certain sense, yes,” returned the other, quite 
unruffled. “You have exactly defined the situation, and 
ours is by far the more disagreeable and thankless part 
to play. Oh— I am not going to defend all we have 
done ! I only defend what we mean to do. Change of 
any sort is execrable to the man of taste, unless it is 
brought about by time — and that is a beautifier which we 
have not at our disposal. We are half Vandals and half 
Americans, and we are in a terrible hurry.” 

Maria Consuelo laughed, and Orsino’ s face became a 
shade less gloomy. He had expected to find Del Ferice 
the arrogant, self-satisfied apostle of the modern, which 
he was represented to be. 


DON ORSINO. 


117 


“ Could you not have taken a little more time?” asked 
Orsino. 

“ I cannot see how. Besides it is our time which takes 
us with it. So long as Rome was the capital of an idea 
there was no need of haste in doing anything. But 
when it became the capital of a modern kingdom, it fell 
a victim to modern facts — which are not beautiful. The 
most we can hope to do is to direct the current, clumsily 
enough, I daresay. We cannot stop it. Nothing short 
of Oriental despotism could. We cannot prevent people 
from flocking to the centre, and where there is a popula- 
tion it must be housed.” 

“ Evidently,” said Madame d’Aranjuez. 

“ It seems to me that, without disturbing the old city, 
a new one might have been built beside it,” observed 
Orsino. 

“No doubt. And that is practically what we have 
done. I say ‘we, ; because you say ‘you.* But I think 
you will admit that, as far as personal activity is con- 
cerned, the Romans of Rome are taking as active a share 
in building ugly houses as any of the Italian Romans. 
The destruction of the Villa Ludovisi, for instance, 
was forced upon the owner not by the national govern- 
ment but by an insane municipality, and those who have 
taken over the building lots are largely Roman princes 
of the old stock.” 

The argument was unanswerable, and Orsino knew it, 
a fact which did not improve his temper. It was dis- 
agreeable enough to be forced into a conversation with 
Del Ferice, and it was still worse to be obliged to agree 
with him. Orsino frowned and said nothing, hoping 
that the subject would drop. But Del Ferice had only 
produced an unpleasant impression in order to remove 
it and thereby improve the whole situation, which was 
one of the most difficult in which he had found himself 
for some time. 

“ I repeat, ” he said, with a pleasant smile, “ that it is 
hopeless to defend all of what is actually done in our 


118 


DON ORSINO. 


day in Eome. Some of your friends and many of mine 
are building houses which even age and ruin will never 
beautify. The only defensible part of the affair is the 
political change which has brought about the necessity 
of building at all, and upon that point I think that we 
may agree to differ. Do you not think so, Don Orsino? ” 

“ By all means, ” answered the young man, conscious 
that the proposal was both just and fitting. 

“ And for the rest, both your friends and mine — for all 
I know, your own family and certainly I myself — have 
enormous interests at stake. We may at least agree to 
hope that none of us may be ruined.” 

“ Certainly — though we have had nothing to do with 
the matter. Neither my father nor my grandfather have 
entered into any such speculation.” 

“ It is a pity, ” said Del Ferice thoughtfully. 

“Why a pity?” 

“ On the one hand my instincts are basely commercial, ” 
Del Ferice answered with a frank laugh. “No matter 
how great a fortune may be, it may be doubled and 
trebled. You must remember that I am a banker in fact 
if not exactly in designation, and the opportunity is 
excellent. But the greater pity is that such men as 
you, Don Orsino, who could exercise as much influence 
as it might please you to use, leave it to men — very un- 
like you, I fancy — to murder the architecture of Kome 
and prepare the triumph of the hideous.” 

Orsino did not answer the remark, although he was 
not altogether displeased with the idea it conveyed. 
Maria Consuelo looked at him. 

“ Why do you stand aloof and let things go from bad 
to worse when you might really do good by joining in 
the affairs of the day?” she asked. 

“ I could not join in them, if I would, ” answered Orsino. 

“Why not?” 

“ Because I have not command of a hundred francs in 
the world, Madame. That is the simplest and best of 
all reasons.” 


DON ORSINO. 


119 


Del Ferice laughed incredulously. 

“ The eldest son of Casa Saracinesca would not find 
that a practical obstacle,” he said, taking his hat and 
rising to go. “Besides, what is needed in these transac- 
tions is not so much ready money as courage, decision 
and judgment. There is a rich firm of contractors now 
doing a large business, who began with three thousand 
francs as their whole capital — what you might lose at 
cards in an evening without missing it, though you say 
that you have no money at your command.” 

“Is that possible?” asked Orsino with some interest. 

“ It is a fact. There were three men, a tobacconist, a 
carpenter and a mason, and they each had a thousand 
francs of savings. They took over a contract last week 
for a million and a half, on which they will clear 
twenty per cent. But they had the qualities — the dar- 
ing and the prudence combined. They succeeded.” 

“ And if they had failed, what would have happened? ” 

“ They would have lost their three thousand francs. 
They had nothing else to lose, and there was nothing in 
the least irregular about their transactions. Good even- 
ing, Madame — I have a private meeting of directors at 
my house. Good evening, Don Orsino.” 

He went out, leaving behind him an impression which 
was not by any means disagreeable. His appearance 
was against him, Orsino thought. His fat white face 
and dull eyes were not pleasant to look at. But he had 
shown tact in a difficult situation, and there was a quiet 
energy about him, a settled purpose which could not fail 
to please a young man who hated his own idleness. 

Orsino found that his mood had changed. He was 
less angry than he had meant to be, and he saw extenu- 
ating circumstances where he had at first only seen a 
wilful mistake. He sat down again. 

“Confess that he is not the impossible creature you 
supposed,” said Maria Consuelo with a laugh. 

“Ho, he is not. I had imagined something very 
different. nevertheless, I wish — one never has the 


120 


DON ORSINO. 


least right to wish what one wishes ” He stopped 

in the middle of the sentence. 

“That I had not gone to his wife’s party, you would 
say? But my dear Don Orsino, why should I refuse 
pleasant things when they come into my life?” 

“Was it so pleasant? ” 

“ Of course it was. A beautiful dinner — half a dozen 
clever men, all interested in the affairs of the day, and 
all anxious to explain them to me because I was a 
stranger. A hundred people or so in the evening, who 
all seemed to enjoy themselves as much as I did. Why 
should I refuse all that? Because my first acquaintance 
in Borne — who was Gouache — is so ‘indifferent,’ and 
because you — my second — are a pronounced clerical? 
That is not reasonable.” 

“I do not pretend to be reasonable,” said Orsino. 
“To be reasonable is the boast of people who feel 
nothing.” 

“Then you are a man of heart?” Maria Consuelo 
seemed amused. 

“ I make no pretence to being a man of head, Madame.” 

“You are not easily caught.” 

“Nor Del Fence either.” 

“ Why do you talk of him ? ” 

“The opportunity is good, Madame. As he is just 
gone, we know that he is not coming.” 

“You can be very sarcastic, when you like,” said 
Maria Consuelo. “ But I do not believe that you are as 
bitter as you make yourself out to be. I do not even 
believe that you found Del Ferice so very disagreeable 
as you pretend. You were certainly interested in what 
he said.” 

“Interest is not always agreeable. The guillotine, 
for instance, possesses the most lively interest for the 
condemned man at an execution.” 

“ Your illustrations are startling. I once saw an execu- 
tion, quite by accident, and I would rather not think of it. 
But you can hardly compare Del Ferice to the guillotine. ” 


DON ORSINO. 


121 


“ He is as noiseless, as keen and as sure, ” said Orsino 
smartly. 

“ There is such a thing as being too clever, ” answered 
Maria Consuelo, without a smile. 

“ Is Del Ferice a case of that? ” 

“No. You are. You say cutting things merely be- 
cause they come into your head, though I am sure that 
you do not always mean them. It is a bad habit.” 

“ Because it makes enemies, Madame?” Orsino was 
annoyed by the rebuke. 

“That is the least good of good reasons.” 

“ Another, then? ” 

“It will prevent people from loving you,” said Maria 
Consuelo gravely. 

“ I never heard that ” 

“No? It is true, nevertheless.” 

“In that case I will reform at once,” said Orsino, 
trying to meet her eyes. But she looked away from 
him. 

“ You think that I am preaching to you,” she answered. 
“ I have not the right to do that, and if I had, I would 
certainly not use it. But I have seen something of the 
world. Women rarely love a man who is bitter against 
any one but himself. If he says cruel things of other 
women, the one to whom he says them believes that he 
will say much worse of her to the next he meets ; if he 
abuses the men she knows, she likes it even less — it is 
an attack on her judgment, on her taste and perhaps 
upon a half-developed sympathy for the man attacked. 
One should never be witty at another person’s expense, 
except with one’s own sex.” She laughed a little. 

“ What a terrible conclusion ! ” 

“Is it? It is the true one.” 

“ Then the way to win a woman’s love is to praise her 
acquaintances? That is original.” 

“I never said that.” 

“No? I misunderstood. What is the best way?” 

“Oh — it is very simple,” laughed Maria Consuelo. 


122 


DON ORSINO. 


“ Tell her you love her, and tell her so again and again — 
you will certainly please her in the end.” 

“ Madame ” Orsino stopped, and folded his hands 

with an air of devout supplication. 

“What?” 

“Oh, nothing! I was about to begin. It seemed so 
simple, as you say.” 

They both laughed and their eyes met for a moment. 

“Del Ferice interests me very much,” said Maria 
Consuelo, abruptly returning to the original subject of 
conversation. “He is one of those men who will be 
held responsible for much that is now doing. Is it not 
true? He has great influence.” 

“I have always heard so.” Orsino was not pleased at 
being driven to talk of Del Ferice again. 

“ Do you think what he said about you so altogether 
absurd? ” 

“Absurd, no — impracticable, perhaps. You mean his 
suggestion that I should try a little speculation? 
Frankly, I had no idea that such things could be begun 
with so little capital. It seems incredible. I fancy that 
Del Ferice was exaggerating. You know how carelessly 
bankers talk of a few thousands, more or less. Nothing 
short of a million has much meaning for them. Three 
thousand or thirty thousand — it is much the same in 
their estimation.” 

“I daresay. After all, why should you risk anything? 
I suppose it is simpler to play cards, though I should 
think it less amusing. I was only thinking how easy it 
would be for you to find a serious occupation if you 
chose.” 

Orsino was silent for a moment, and seemed to be 
thinking over the matter. 

“Would you advise me to enter upon such a business 
without my father’s knowledge?” he asked presently. 

“How can I advise you? Besides, your father would 
let you do as you please. There is nothing dishonour- 
able in such things. The prejudice against business is 


DON ORSINO. 


123 


old-fashioned, and if yon do not break through it your 
children will.” 

Orsino looked thoughtfully at Maria Consuelo. She 
sometimes found an oddly masculine bluntness with 
which to express her meaning, and which produced a 
singular impression on the young man. It made him 
feel what he supposed to be a sort of weakness, of 
which he ought to be ashamed. 

“There is nothing dishonourable in the theory,” he 
answered, “and the practice depends on the individual.” 

Maria Consuelo laughed. 

“You see — you can be a moralist when you please,” 
she said. 

There was a wonderful attraction in her yellow eyes 
just at that moment. 

“ To please you, Madame, I could do something much 
worse — or much better.” 

He was not quite in earnest, but he was not jesting, 
and his face was more serious than his voice. Maria 
Consuelo’s hand was lying on the table beside the silver 
paper-cutter. The white, pointed fingers were very 
tempting and he would willingly have touched them. 
He put out his hand. If she did not draw hers away he 
would lay his own upon it. If she did, he would take 
up the paper-cutter. As it turned out, he had to con- 
tent himself with the latter. She did not draw her 
hand away as though she understood what he was going 
to do, but quietly raised it and turned the shade of the 
lamp a few inches. 

“I would rather not be responsible for your choice,” 
she said quietly. 

“ And yet you have left me none, ” he answered with 
sudden boldness. 

“No? How so?” 

He held up the silver knife and smiled. 

“I do not understand,” she said, affecting a look of 
surprise. 

“ I was going to ask your permission to take your hand.” 


124 


DON ORSINO. 


“ Indeed? Why? There it is.” She held it out 
frankly. 

He took the beautiful fingers in his and looked at them 
for a moment. Then he quietly raised them to his lips. 

“That was not included in the permission,” she said, 
with a little laugh and drawing back. “ Now you ought 
to go away at once.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because that little ceremony can belong only to the 
beginning or the end of a visit.” 

“I have only just come.” 

“Ah? How long the time has seemed! I fancied you 
had been here half an hour.” 

“To me it has seemed but a minute,” answered Orsino 
promptly. 

“And you will not go?” 

There was nothing of the nature of a peremptory dis- 
missal in the look which accompanied the words. 

“No — at the most, I will practise leave-taking.” 

“I think not,” said Maria Consuelo with sudden cold- 
ness. “You are a little too — what shall I say? — too en- 
terprising, prince. You had better make use of the 
gift where it will be a recommendation — in business, 
for instance.” 

“You are very severe, Madame,” answered Orsino, 
deeming it wiser to affect humility, though a dozen sharp 
answers suggested themselves to his ready wit. 

Maria Consuelo was silent for a few seconds. Her 
head was resting upon the little red morocco cushion, 
which heightened the dazzling whiteness of her skin and 
lent a deeper colour to her auburn hair. She was gaz- 
ing at the hangings above the door. Orsino watched 
her in quiet admiration. She was beautiful as he saw 
her there at that moment, for the irregularities of her 
features were forgotten in the brilliancy of her colour- 
ing and in the grace of the attitude. Her face was seri- 
ous at first. Gradually a smile stole over it, beginning, 
as it seemed, from the deeply set eyes and concentrating 


DON ORSINO. 


125 


itself at last in the full, red mouth. Then she spoke, 
still looking upwards and away from him. 

“ What would you think if I were not a little severe? ” 
she asked. “ I am a woman living — travelling, I should 
say — quite alone, a stranger here, and little less than a 
stranger to you. What would you think if I were not a 
little severe, I say? What conclusion would you come 
to, if I let you take my hand as often as you pleased, 
and say whatever suggested itself to your imagination — 
your very active imagination?” 

“ I should think you the most adorable of women ” 

“ But it is not my ambition to be thought the most 
adorable of women by you, Prince Orsino.” 

“ No — of course not. People never care for what they 
get without an effort.” 

“ You are absolutely irrepressible! ” exclaimed Maria 
Consuelo, laughing in spite of herself. 

“ And you do not like that ! I will be meekness itself 
— a lamb, if you please.” 

“Too playful — it would not suit your style.” 

“ A stone ” 

“I detest geology.” 

“ A lap-dog, then. Make your choice, Madame. The 
menagerie of the universe is at your disposal. When 
Adam gave names to the animals, he could have called 
a lion a lap-dog — to reassure the Africans. But he 
lacked imagination — he called a cat, a cat.” 

“That had the merit of simplicity, at all events.” 

“ Since you admire his system, you may call me either 
Cain or Abel,” suggested Orsino. “ Am I humble enough? 
Can submission go farther?” 

“Either would be flattery — for Abel was good and 
Cain was interesting.” 

“ And I am neither — you give me another opportunity 
of exhibiting my deep humility. I thank you sincerely. 
You are becoming more gracious than I had hoped.” 

“ You are very like a woman, Don Orsino. You always 
try to have the last word.” 


126 


DON ORSINO. 


“ I always hope that the last word may be the best. 
But I accept the criticism — or the reproach, with my 
usual gratitude. I only beg you to observe that to let 
you have the last word would be for me to end the con- 
versation, after which I should be obliged to go away. 
And I do not wish to go, as I have already said.” 

“ You suggest the means of making you go,” answered 
Maria Consuelo, with a smile. “I can be silent — if you 
will not.” 

“It will be useless. If you do not interrupt me, I 
shall become eloquent ” 

“ How terrible ! Pray do not ! ” 

“ You see! I have you in my power. You cannot get 
rid of me.” 

“I would appeal to your generosity, then.” 

“ That is another matter, Madame, ” said Orsino, tak' 
ing his hat. 

“ I only said that I would ” Maria Consuelo made 

a gesture to stop him. 

But he was wise enough to see that the conversation 
had reached its natural end, and his instinct told him that 
he should not outstay his welcome. He pretended not 
to see the motion of her hand, and rose to take his leave. 

“You do not know me,” he said. “To point out to 
me a possible generous action, is to ensure my perform- 
ing it without hesitation. When may I be so fortunate 
as to see you again, Madame?” 

“You need not be so intensely ceremonious. You 
know that I am always at home at this hour.” 

Orsino was very much struck by this answer. There 
was a shade of irritation in the tone, which he had cer- 
tainly not expected, and which flattered him exceedingly. 
She turned her face away as she gave him her hand and 
moved a book on the table with the other as though she 
meant to begin reading almost before he should be out 
of the room. He had not felt by any means sure that 
she really liked his society, and he had not expected 
that she would so far forget herself as to show her in- 


DON ORSINO. 


127 


clination by her impatience. He had judged, rightly or 
wrongly, that she was a woman who weighed every word 
and gesture beforehand, and who would be incapable of 
such an oversight as an unpremeditated manifestation of 
feeling. 

Very young men are nowadays apt to imagine compli- 
cations of character where they do not exist, often over- 
looking them altogether where they play a real part. 
The passion for analysis discovers what it takes for new 
simple elements in humanity’s motives, and often ends 
by feeding on itself in the effort to decompose what is not 
composite. The greatest analysers are perhaps the young 
and the old, who, being respectively before and behind 
the times, are not so intimate with them as those who 
are actually making history, political or social, ethical 
or scandalous, dramatic or comic. 

It is very much the custom among those who write 
fiction in the English language to efface their own indi- 
viduality behind the majestic but rather meaningless 
plural, “ we, ” or to let the characters created express the 
author’s view of mankind. The great French novelists 
are more frank, for they say boldly “ I, ” and have the 
courage of their opinions. Their merit is the greater, 
since those opinions seem to be rarely complimentary to 
the human race in general, or to their readers in particu- 
lar. Without introducing any comparison between the 
fiction of the two languages, it may be said that the 
tendency of the method is identical in both cases and is 
the consequence of an extreme preference for analysis, 
to the detriment of the romantic and very often of the 
dramatic element in the modern novel. The result may 
or may not be a volume of modern social history for the 
instruction of the present and the future generation. 
If it is not, it loses one of the chief merits which it 
claims ; if it is, then we must admit the rather strange 
deduction, that the political history of our times has 
absorbed into itself all the romance and the tragedy at 
the disposal of destiny, leaving next to none at all in 


128 


DON OKSINO. 


the private lives of the actors and their numerous rela- 
tions. 

Whatever the truth may be, it is certain that this love 
of minute dissection is exercising an enormous influence 
in our time ; and as no one will pretend that a majority 
of the young persons in society who analyse the motives 
of their contemporaries and elders are successful moral 
anatomists, we are forced to the conclusion that they 
are frequently indebted to their imaginations for the re- 
sults they obtain and not seldom for the material upon 
which they work. A real Chemistry may some day grow 
out of the failures of this fanciful Alchemy, but the 
present generation will hardly live to discover the philos- 
opher’s stone, though the search for it yield gold, in- 
directly, by the writing of many novels. If fiction is to 
be counted among the arts at all, it is not yet time to 
forget the saying of a very great man : “ It is the mis- 

sion of all art to create and foster agreeable illusions.” 

Orsino Saracinesca was no further removed from the 
action of the analytical bacillus than other men of his 
age. He believed and desired his own character to be 
more complicated than it was, and he had no sooner 
made the acquaintance of Maria Consuelo than he began 
to attribute to her minutest actions such a tortuous web 
of motives as would have annihilated all action if it had 
really existed in her brain. The possible simplicity of 
a strong and much tried character, good or bad, alto- 
gether escaped him, and even an occasional unrestrained 
word or gesture failed to convince him that he was on 
the wrong track. To tell the truth, he was as yet very 
inexperienced. His visits to Maria Consuelo passed 
in making light conversation. He tried to amuse her, 
and succeeded fairly well, while at the same time he in- 
dulged in endless and fruitless speculations as to her 
former life, her present intentions and her sentiments 
with regard to himself. He would have liked to lead 
her into talking of herself, but he did not know where to 
begin. It was not a part of his system to believe in 


DON ORS1NO. 


129 


mysteries concerning people, but wlien he reflected upon 
the matter he was amazed at the impenetrability of the 
barrier which cut him off from all knowledge of her life. 
He soon heard the tales about her which were carelessly 
circulated at the club, and he listened to them without 
much interest, though he took the trouble to deny their 
truth on his own responsibility, which surprised the men 
who knew him and gave rise to the story that he was in 
love with Madame d’Aranjuez. The most annoying 
consequence of the rumour was that every woman to 
whom he spoke in society overwhelmed him with ques- 
tions which he could not answer except in the vaguest 
terms. In his ignorance he did his best to evolve a satis- 
factory history for Maria Consuelo out of his imagina- 
tion, but the result was not satisfactory. . 

He continued his visits to her, resolving before each 
meeting that he would risk offending her by putting 
some question which she must either answer directly or 
refuse to answer altogether. But he had not counted 
upon his own inherent hatred of rudeness, nor upon the 
growth of an attachment which he had not foreseen when 
he had coldly made up his mind that it would be worth 
while to make love to her, as Gouache had laughingly 
suggested. Yet he was pleased with what he deemed his 
own coldness. He assuredly did not love her, but he 
knew already that he would not like to give up the half 
hours he spent with her. To offend her seriously would 
be to forfeit a portion of his daily amusement which he 
could not spare. 

From time to time he risked a careless, half-jesting 
declaration such as many a woman might have taken 
seriously. But Maria Consuelo turned such advances 
with a laugh or by an answer that was admirably tem- 
pered with quiet dignity and friendly rebuke. 

“If she is not good,” he said to himself at last, “she 
must be enormously clever. She must be one or the 
other.” 

K 


130 


DON OESINO. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Orsino’s twenty-first birthday fell in the latter part of 
January, when the Roman season was at its height, but 
as the young man’s majority did not bring him any of 
those sudden changes in position which make epochs in 
the lives of fatherless sons, the event was considered as 
a family matter and no great social celebration of it was 
contemplated. It chanced, too, that the day of the week 
was the one appropriated by the Montevarchi for their 
weekly dance, with which it would have been a mistake 
to interfere. The old Prince Saracinesca, however, in- 
sisted that a score of old friends should be asked to din- 
ner, to drink the health of his eldest grandson, and this 
was accordingly done. 

Orsino always looked back to that banquet as one 
of the dullest at which he ever assisted. The friends 
were literally old, and their ' conversation was not 
brilliant. Each one on arriving addressed to him a few 
congratulatory and moral sentiments, clothed in rounded 
periods and twanging of Cicero in his most sermonising 
mood. Each drank his especial health at the end of the 
dinner in a teaspoonful of old “vin santo,” and each 
made a stiff compliment to Corona on her youthful ap- 
pearance. The men were almost all grandees of Spain 
of the first class and wore their ribbons by common con- 
sent, which lent the assembly an imposing appearance; 
but several of them were of a somnolent disposition and 
nodded after dinner, which did not contribute to prolong 
the effect produced. Orsino thought their stories and 
anecdotes very long-winded and pointless, and even the 
old prince himself seemed oppressed by the solemnity 
of the affair, and rarely laughed. Corona, with serene 
good humour did her best to make conversation, and a 
shade of animation occasionally appeared at her end of 
the table; but Sant’ Ilario was bored to the verge of 


DON ORSINO. 


131 


extinction and talked of nothing but archaeology and the 
trial of the Cenci, wondering inwardly why he chose 
such exceedingly dry subjects. As for Orsino, the two 
old princesses between whom he was placed paid very 
little attention to him, and talked across him about the 
merits of their respective confessors and directors. He 
frivolously asked them whether they ever went to the 
theatre, to which they replied very coldly that they went 
to their boxes when the piece was not on the Index and 
when there was no ballet. Orsino understood why he 
never saw them at the opera, and relapsed into silence. 
The butler, a son of the legendary Pasquale of earlier 
days, did his best to cheer the youngest of his masters with 
a great variety of wines; but Orsino would not be com- 
forted either by very dry champagne or very mellow 
claret. But he vowed a bitter revenge and swore to 
dance till three in the morning at the Montevarchi’s and 
finish the night with a rousing baccarat a.t the club, 
which projects he began to put into execution as soon 
as was practicable. 

In due time the guests departed, solemnly renewing 
their expressions of good wishes, and the Saracinesca 
household was left to itself. The old prince stood before 
the fire in the state drawing-room, rubbing his hands 
and shaking his head. Giovanni and Corona sat on 
opposite sides of the fireplace, looking at each other and 
somewhat inclined to laugh. Orsino was intently study- 
ing a piece of historical tapestry which had never inter- 
ested him before. 

The silence lasted some time. Then old Saracinesca 
raised his head and gave vent to his feelings, with all 
his old energy. 

“ What a museum ! ” he exclaimed. “ I would not have 
believed that I should live to dine in my own house with 
a party of stranded figure-heads, set up in rows around 
my table ! The paint is all worn off and the brains are 
all worn out and there is nothing left but a cracked old 
block of wood with a ribbon around its neck. You will 


132 


DON ORSINO. 


be just like tliem, Giovanni, in a few years, for you 
will be just like me — we all turn into the same shape 
at seventy, and if we live a dozen years longer it is 
because Providence designs to make us an awful ex- 
ample to the young.” 

“ I hope you do not call yourself a figure-head, ” said 
Giovanni. 

“They are calling me by worse names at this very 
minute as they drive home. ‘That old Methuselah of a 
Saracinesca, how has he the face to go on living? ? That 
is the way they talk. ‘People ought to die decently when 
other people have had enough of them, instead of sitting 
up at the table like death’s-heads to grin at their grand- 
children and great-grandchildren ! ; They talk like that, 
Giovanni. I have known some of those old monuments 
for sixty years and more — since they were babies and I was 
of Orsino’ s age. Do you suppose I do not know how they 
talk? You always take me for a good, confiding old fellow, 
Giovanni. But then, you never understood human nature. ” 

Giovanni laughed and Corona smiled. Orsino turned 
round to enjoy the rare delight of seeing the old gentle- 
man rouse himself in a fit of temper. 

“ If you were ever confiding it was because you were 
too good,” said Giovanni affectionately. 

“Yes — good and confiding — that is it! You always 
did agree with* me as to my own faults. Is it not true, 
Corona? Can you not take my part against that grace- 
less husband of yours? He is always abusing me — as 
though I were his property, or his guest. Orsino, my 
boy, go away — we are all quarrelling here like a pack of 
wolves, and you ought to respect your elders. Here is 
your father calling me by bad names ” 

“I said you were too good,” observed Giovanni. 

“Yes — good and confiding! If you can find anything 
worse to say, say it — and may you live to hear that good- 
for-nothing Orsino call you good and confiding when you 
are eighty-two years old. And Corona is laughing at 
me. It is insufferable. You used to be a good girl, 


DON ORSINO. 


133 


Corona — but you are so proud of having four sons that 
there is no possibility of talking to you any longer. It 
is a pity that you have not brought them up better. 
Look at Orsino. He is laughing too.” 

“ Certainly not at you, grandfather, ” the young man 
hastened to say. 

“ Then you must be laughing at your father or your 
mother, or both, since there is no one else here to laugh 
at. You are concocting sharp speeches for your abomi- 
nable tongue. I know it. I can see it in your eyes. 
That is the way you have brought up your children, 
Giovanni. I congratulate you. Upon my word, I con- 
gratulate you with all my heart! Hot that I ever ex- 
pected anything better. You addled your own brains with 
curious foreign ideas on your travels — the greater fool I 
for letting you run about the world when you were 
young. I ought to have locked you up in Saracinesca, 
on bread and water, until you understood the world 
well enough to profit by it. I wish I had.” 

Hone of the three could help laughing at this extraor- 
dinary speech. Orsino recovered his gravity first, by 
the help of the historical tapestry. The old gentleman 
noticed the fact. 

“Come here, Orsino, my boy,” he said. “I want to 
talk to you.” 

Orsino came forward. The old prince laid a hand on 
his shoulder and looked up into his face. 

“You are twenty-one years old to-day,” he said, “and 
we are all quarrelling in honour of the event. You 
ought to be flattered that we should take so much trouble 
to make the evening pass pleasantly for you, but you 
probably have not the discrimination to see what your 
amusement costs us.” 

His grey beard shook a little, his rugged features 
twitched, and then a broad good-humoured smile lit up 
the old face. 

“We are quarrelsome people,” he continued in his most 
cheerful and hearty tone. “When Giovanni and I 


134 


DO N OUSINO. 


were young — we were young together, you know — we 
quarrelled every day as regularly as we ate and drank. 
I believe it was very good for us. We generally made 
it up before night — for the sake of beginning again with 
a clear conscience. Anything served us — the weather, 
the soup, the colour of a horse.” 

“You must have led an extremely lively life,” observed 
Orsino, considerably amused. 

“ It was very well for us, Orsino. But it will not do 
for you. You are not so much like your father, as he 
was like me at your age. We fought with the same 
weapons, but you two would not, if you fought at all. 
We fenced for our own amusement and we kept the 
buttons on the foils. You have neither my really angelic 
temper nor your father’s stony coolness — he is laughing 
again — no matter, he knows it is true. You have a 
diabolical tongue. Do not quarrel with your father for 
amusement, Orsino. His calmness will exasperate you 
as it does me, but you will not laugh at the right moment 
as I have done all my life. You will bear malice and 
grow sullen and permanently disagreeable. And do not 
say all the cutting things you think of, because with 
your disposition you will get into serious trouble. If 
you have really good cause for being angry, it is better 
to strike than to speak, and in such cases I strongly 
advise you to strike first. Now go and amuse yourself, for 
you must have had enough of our company. I do not think 
of any other advice to give you on your coming of age.” 

Thereupon he laughed again and pushed his grandson 
away, evidently delighted with the lecture he had given 
him. Orsino was quick to profit by the permission and 
was soon in the Montevarchi ballroom, doing his best to 
forget the lugubrious feast in his own honour at which 
he had lately assisted. 

He was not altogether successful, however. He had 
looked forward to the day for many months as one of 
rejoicing as well as of emancipation, and he had been 
grievously disappointed. There was something of ill 


DON ORSINO. 


135 


augury, he thought, in the appalling dulness of the 
guests, for they had congratulated him upon his entry 
into a life exactly similar to their own. Indeed, the more 
precisely similar it proved to be, the more he would be 
respected when he reached their advanced age. The 
future unfolded to him was not gay. He was to live 
forty, fifty or even sixty years in the same round of 
traditions and hampered by the same net of prejudices. 
He might have his romance, as his father had had before 
him, but there was nothing beyond that. His father 
seemed perfectly satisfied with his own unruffled exist- 
ence and far from desirous of any change. The feudal- 
ism of it all was still real in fact, though abolished in 
theory, and the old prince was as much a great feudal 
lord as ever, whose interests were almost tribal in their 
narrowness, almost sordid in their detail, and altogether 
uninteresting to his presumptive heir in the third genera- 
tion. What was the peasant of Aquaviva, for instance, 
to Orsino? Yet Sant’ Ilario and old Saracinesca took 
a lively interest in his doings and in the doings of four or 
five hundred of his kind, whom they knew by name and 
spoke of as belongings, much as they would have spoken 
of books in the library. To collect rents from peasants 
and to ascertain in person whether their houses needed 
repair was not a career. Orsino thought enviously of 
San Giacinto’s two sons, leading what seemed to him a 
life of comparative activity and excitement in the Italian 
army, and having the prospect of distinction by their 
own merits. He thought of San Giacinto himself, of his 
ceaseless energy and of the great position he was build- 
ing up. San Giacinto was a Saracinesca as well as 
Orsino, bearing the same name and perhaps not less re- 
spected than the rest by the world at large, though he 
had sullied his hands with finance. Even Del Fence’s 
position would have been above criticism, but for certain 
passages in his earlier life not immediately connected 
with his present occupation. And as if such instances 
were not enough there were, to Orsino ’s certain knowl- 


136 


DON OBSINO. 


edge, half a dozen men of his father’s rank even now 
deeply engaged in the speculations of the day. Mon- 
tevarchi was one of them, and neither he nor the others 
made any secret of their doings. 

“ Surely, ” thought Orsino, “ I have as good a head as 
any of them, except, perhaps, San Giacinto.” 

And he grew more and more discontented with his lot, 
and more and more angry at himself for submitting to 
be bound hand and foot and sacrificed upon the altar of 
feudalism. Everything had disappointed and irritated 
him on that day, the weariness of the dinner, the sight 
of his parents’ placid felicity, the advice his grandfather 
had given him — good of its kind, but lamentably insuffi- 
cient, to say the least of it. He was rapidly approach- 
ing that state of mind in which young men do the most 
unexpected things for the mere pleasure of surprising 
their relations. 

He grew tired of the ball, because Madame d’Aranjuez 
was not there. He longed to dance with her and he 
wished that he were at liberty to frequent the houses to 
which she was asked. But as yet she saw only the 
Whites and had not made the acquaintance of a single 
Grey family, in spite of his entreaties. He could not 
tell whether she had any fixed reason in making her 
choice, or whether as yet it had been the result of 
chance, but he discovered that he was bored wherever 
he went because she was not present. At supper-time 
on this particular evening, he entered into a conspiracy 
with certain choice spirits to leave the party and adjourn 
to the club and cards. 

The sight of the tables revived him and he drew a long 
breath as he sat down with a cigarette in his mouth and 
a glass at his elbow. It seemed as though the day were 
beginning at last. 

Orsino was no more a born gambler than he was dis- 
posed to be a hard drinker. He loved excitement in 
any shape, and being so constituted as to bear it better 
than most men, he took it greedily in whatever form it 


DON OKSINO. 


137 


was offered to him. He neither played nor drank every 
day, but when he did either he was inclined to play more 
than other people and to consume more strong liquor. 
Yet his judgment was not remarkable, nor his head 
much stronger than the heads of his companions. Great 
gamblers do not drink, and great drinkers are not good 
players, though they are sometimes amazingly lucky 
when in their cups. 

It is of no use to deny the enormous influence of 
brandy and games of chance on the men of the present 
day, but there is little profit in describing such scenes as 
take place nightly in many clubs all over Europe. Some- 
thing might be gained, indeed, if we could trace the 
causes which have made gambling especially the vice of 
our generation, for that discovery might show us some 
means of influencing the next. But I do not believe that 
this is possible. The times have undoubtedly grown more 
dull, as civilisation has made them more alike, but there 
is, I think, no truth in the common statement that vice is 
bred of idleness. The really idle man is a poor creature, 
incapable of strong sins. It is far more often the man 
of superior gifts, with faculties overwrought and nerves 
strained above concert pitch by excessive mental exer- 
tion, who turns to vicious excitement for the sake of rest, 
as a duller man falls asleep. Men whose lives are spent 
amidst the vicissitudes, surprises and disappointments 
of the money market are assuredly less idle than country 
gentlemen; the busy lawyer has less time to spare than 
the equally gifted fellow of a college; the skilled me- 
chanic works infinitely harder, taking the average of the 
whole year, than the agricultural labourer; the life of 
a sailor on an ordinary merchant ship is one of rest, ease 
and safety compared with that of the collier. Yet there 
can hardly be a doubt as to which individual in each 
example is the one to seek relaxation in excitement, 
innocent or the reverse, instead of in sleep. The opera- 
tor in the stock market, the barrister, the mechanic, the 
miner, in every case the men whose faculties are the 


138 


DON OKSIKO. 


more severely strained, are those who seek strong emo- 
tions in their daily leisure, and who are the more in- 
clined to extend that leisure at the expense of bodily 
rest. It may be objected that the worst vice is found in 
the highest grades of society, that is to say, among men 
who have no settled occupation. I answer that, in the 
first place, this is not a known fact, but a matter of 
speculation, and that the conclusion 'is principally drawn 
from the circumstance that the evil deeds of such per- 
sons, when they become known, are very severely criti- 
cised by those whose criticism has the most weight, 
namely by the equals of the sinners in question — as well 
as by writers of fiction whose opinions may or may not 
be worth considering. For one Zola, historian of the 
Bougon-Macquart family, there are a hundred would-be 
Zolas, censors of a higher class, less unpleasantly fond 
of accurate detail, perhaps, but as merciless in intention. 
But even if the case against society be proved, which is 
possible, I do not think that society can truly be called 
idle, because many of those who compose it have no 
settled occupation. The social day is a long one. 
Society would not accept the eight hours’ system de- 
manded by the labour unions. Society not uncommonly 
works at a high pressure for twelve, fourteen and even 
sixteen hours at a stretch. The mental strain, though 
not of the most intellectual order, is incomparably more 
severe than that required for success in many lucrative 
professions or crafts. The general absence of a distinct 
aim sharpens the faculties in the keen pursuit of details, 
and lends an importance to trifles which overburdens at 
every turn the responsibility borne by the nerves. Lazy 
people are not favourites in drawing-rooms, and still less 
at the dinner-table. Consider also that the average man 
of the world, and many women, daily sustain an amount 
of bodily fatigue equal perhaps to that borne by many 
mechanics and craftsmen and much greater than that 
required in the liberal professions, and that, too, under 
far less favourable conditions. Becapitulate all these 


DON OKSINO. 


139 


points. Add together the physical effort, the mental 
activity, the nervous strain. Take the sum and compare 
it with that got by a similar process from other condi- 
tions of existence. I think there can be little doubt of 
the verdict. The force exerted is wasted, if you please, 
but it is enormously great, and more than sufficient to 
prove that those who daily exert it are by no means idle. 
Besides, none of the inevitable outward and visible 
results of idleness are apparent in the ordinary society 
man or woman. On the contrary, most of them exhibit 
the peculiar and unmistakable signs of physical exhaus- 
tion, chief of which is cerebral anaemia. They are over- 
trained and overworked. In the language of training 
they are “ stale.” 

Men like Orsino Saracinesca are not vicious at his age, 
though they may become so. Vice begins when the ex- 
citement ceases to be a matter of taste and turns into a 
necessity. Orsino gambled because it amused him when 
no other amusement was obtainable, and he drank while 
he played because it made the amusement seem more 
amusing. He was far too young and healthy and strong 
to feel an irresistible longing for anything not natural. 

On the present occasion he cared very little, at first, 
whether he won or lost, and as often happens to a man 
in that mood he won a considerable sum during the first 
hour. The sight of the notes before him strengthened 
an idea which had crossed his mind more than once of 
late, and the stimulants he drank suddenly fixed it into 
a purpose. It was true that he did not command any 
sum of money which could be dignified by the name of 
capital, but he generally had enough in his pocket to 
play with, and to-night he had rather more than usual. 
It struck him that if he could win a few thousands by a 
run of luck, he would have more than enough to try his 
fortune in the building speculations of which Del Ferice 
had talked. The scheme took shape and at once lent a 
passionate interest to his play. 

Orsino had no system and generally left everything to 


140 


DON ORSINO. 


chance, but he had no sooner determined that he must 
win than he improvised a method, and began to play 
carefully. Of course he lost, and as he saw his heap of 
notes diminishing, he filled his glass more and more 
often. By two o’clock he had but five hundred francs 
left, his face was deadly pale, the lights dazzled him 
and his hands moved uncertainly. He held the bank 
and he knew that if he lost on the card he must borrow 
money, which he did not wish to do. 

He dealt himself a five of spades, and glanced at the 
stakes. They were considerable. A last sensation of 
caution prevented him from taking another card. The 
table turned up a six and he lost. 

“ Lend me some money, Filippo, ” he said to the man 
nearest him, who immediately counted out a number of 
notes. 

Orsino paid with the money and the bank passed. He 
emptied his glass and lit a cigarette. At each succeed- 
ing deal he staked a small sum and lost it, till the bank 
came to him again. Once more he held a five. The 
other men saw that he was losing and put up all they 
could. Orsino hesitated. Some one observed justly 
that he probably held a five again. The lights swam 
indistinctly before him and he drew another card. It 
was a four. Orsino laughed nervously as he gathered 
the notes and paid back what he had borrowed. 

He did not remember clearly what happened after- 
wards. The faces of the cards grew less distinct and the 
lights more dazzling. He played blindly and won al- 
most without interruption until the other men dropped 
off one by one, having lost as much as they cared to part 
with at one sitting. At four o’clock in the morning 
Orsino went home in a cab, having about fifteen thousand 
francs in his pockets. The men he had played with were 
mostly young fellows like himself, having a limited 
allowance of pocket money, and Orsino ’s winnings were 
very large under the circumstances. 

The night air cooled his head and he laughed gaily to 


DON OESINO. 


141 


himself as he drove through the deserted streets. His 
hand was steady enough now, and the gas lamps did not 
move disagreeably before his eyes. But he had reached 
the stage of excitement in which a fixed idea takes hold 
of the brain, and if it had been possible he would un- 
doubtedly have gone as he was, in evening dress, with 
his winnings in his pocket, to rouse Del Ferice, or San 
Giacinto, or any one else who could put him in the way 
of risking his money on a building lot. He reluctantly 
resigned himself to the necessity of going to bed, and 
slept as one sleeps at twenty-one until nearly eleven 
o’clock on the following morning. 

While he dressed he recalled the circumstances of the 
previous night and was surprised to find that his idea 
was as fixed as ever. He counted the money. There 
was five times as much as the Del Fence’s carpenter, 
tobacconist and mason had been able to scrape together 
amongst them. He had therefore, according to his 
simple calculation, just five times as good a chance of 
succeeding as they. And they had been successful. 
His plan fascinated him, and he looked forward to the 
constant interest and occupation with a delight which 
was creditable to his character. He would be busy and 
the magic word “ business” rang in his ears. It was 
speculation, no doubt, but he did not look upon it as a 
form of gambling; if he had done so, he would not have 
cared for it on two consecutive days. It was something 
much better in his eyes. It was to do something, to be 
some one, to strike out of the everlastingly dull road 
which lay before him and which ended in the vanishing 
point of an insignificant old age. 

He had not the very faintest conception of what that 
business was with which he aspired to occupy himself. 
He was totally ignorant of the methods of dealing with 
money, and he no more knew what a draft at three 
months meant than he could have explained the con- 
struction of the watch he carried in his pocket. Of the 
first principles of building he knew, if possible, even 


142 


DON OBSINO. 


less and he did not know whether land in the city were 
worth a franc or a thousand francs by the square foot. 
But he said to himself that those things were mere 
details, and that he could learn all he needed of them 
in a fortnight. Courage and judgment, Del Ferice had 
said, were the chief requisites for success. Courage he 
possessed, and he believed himself cool. He would avail 
himself of the judgment of others until he could judge 
for himself. 

He knew very well what his father would think of the 
whole plan, but he had no intention of concealing his 
project. Since yesterday, he was of age and was there- 
fore his own master to the extent of his own small re- 
sources. His father had not the power to keep him 
from entering upon any honourable undertaking, though 
he might justly refuse to be responsible for the conse- 
quences. At the worst, thought Orsino, those conse- 
quences might be the loss of the money he had in hand. 
Since he had nothing else to risk, he had nothing else to 
lose. That is the light in which most inexperienced 
people regard speculation. Orsino therefore went to his 
father and unfolded his scheme, without mentioning Del 
Ferice. 

Sant* Ilario listened rather impatiently and laughed 
when Orsino had finished. He did not mean to be un- 
kind, and if he had dreamed of the effect his manner 
would produce, he would have been more careful. But 
he did not understand his son, as he himself had been 
understood by his own father. 

“ This is all nonsense, my boy, ** he answered. “ It is 
a mere passing fancy. What do you know of business 
or architecture, or of a dozen other matters which you 
ought to understand thoroughly before attempting any- 
thing like what you propose?** 

Orsino was silent, and looked out of the window, 
though he was evidently listening. 

“ You say you want an occupation. This is not one. 
Banking is an occupation, and architecture is a career, 


DON ORSINO. 


143 


but what we call affairs in Rome are neither one nor the 
other. If you want to be a banker you must go into a 
bank and do clerk’s work for years. If you mean to 
follow architecture as a profession you must spend four 
or five years in study at the very least.” 

“San Giacinto has not done that,” observed Orsino 
coldly. 

“San Giacinto has a very much better head on his 
shoulders than you, or I, or almost any other man in 
Rome. He has known how to make use of other men’s 
talents, and he had a rather more practical education 
than I would have cared to give you. If he were not 
one of the most honest men alive he would certainly 
have turned out one of the greatest scoundrels.” 

“ I do not see what that has to do with it,” said Orsino. 

“Hot much, I confess. But his early life made him 
understand men as you and I cannot understand them, 
and need not, for that matter.” 

“Then you object to my trying this? ” 

“I do nothing of the kind. When I object to the 
doing of anything I prevent it, by fair words or by force. 
I am not inclined for a pitched battle with you, Orsino, 
and I might not get the better of you after all. I will 
be perfectly neutral. I will have nothing to do with 
this business. If I believed in it, I would give you all 
the capital you could need, but I shall not diminish your 
allowance in order to hinder you from throwing it away. 
If you want more money for your amusements or luxu- 
ries, say so. I am not fond of counting small expenses, 
and I have not brought you up to count them either. Do 
not gamble at cards any more than you can help, but if 
you lose and must borrow, borrow of me. When I think 
you are going too far, I will tell you so. But do not 
count upon me for any help in this scheme of yours. 
You will not get it. If you find yourself in a commercial 
scrape, find your own way out of it. If you want better 
advice than mine, go to San Giacinto. He will give you 
a practical man’s view of the case.” 


144 


DON ORSINO. 


“You are frank, at all events,” said Orsino, turning 
from the window and facing his father. 

“Most of us are in this house,” answered Sant’ Ilario. 
“ That will make it all the harder for you to deal with 
the scoundrels who call themselves men of business.” 

“ I mean to try this, father,” said the young man. “ I 
will go and see San Giacinto, as you suggest, and I will 
ask his opinion. But if he discourages me I will try my 
luck all the same. I cannot lead this life any longer. 
I want an occupation and I will make one for myself.” 

“ It is not an occupation that you want, Orsino. It is 
another excitement. That is all. If you want an occu- 
pation, study, learn something, find out what work 
means. Or go to Saracinesca and build houses for the 
peasants — you will do no harm there, at all events. Go 
and drain that land in Lombardy — I can do nothing with 
it and would sell it if I could. But that is not what you 
want. You want an excitement for the hours of the 
morning. Very well. You will probably find more of 
it than you like. Try it, that is all I have to say.” 

Like many very just men Giovanni could state a case 
with alarming unfairness when thoroughly convinced 
that he was right. Orsino stood still for a moment and 
then walked towards the door without another word. 
His father called him back. 

“What is it?” asked Orsino coldly. 

Sant’ Ilario held out his hand with a kindly look in 
his eyes. 

“ I do not want you to think that I am angry, my boy. 
There is to be no ill feeling between us about this.” 

“None whatever,” said the young man, though with- 
out much alacrity, as he shook hands with his father. 
“ I see you are not angry. You do not understand me, 
that is all.” 

He went out, more disappointed with the result of the 
interview than he had expected, though he had not 
looked forward to receiving any encouragement. He 
had known very well what his father’s views were but 


DON ORSINO. 


145 


he had not foreseen that he would be so much irritated 
by the expression of them. His determination hardened 
and he resolved that nothing should hinder him. But 
he was both willing and ready to consult San Giacinto, 
and went to the latter’s house immediately on leaving 
Sant’ Ilario’s study. 

As for Giovanni, he was dimly conscious that he had 
made a mistake, though he did not care to acknowledge 
it. He was a good horseman and he was aware that he 
would have used a very different method with a restive 
colt. But few men are wise enough to see that there 
is only one universal principle to follow in the exertion 
of strength, moral or physical; and instead of seeking 
analogies out of actions familiar to them as a means of 
accomplishing the unfamiliar, they try to discover new 
theories of motion at every turn and are led farther and 
farther from the right line by their own desire to reach 
the end quickly. 

“ At all events,” thought Sant’ Ilario, “the boy’s new 
hobby will take him to places where ha is not likely to 
meet that woman.” 

And with this discourteous reflection upon Madame 
d’Aranjuez he consoled himself. He did not think it 
necessary to tell Corona of Orsino’s intentions, simply 
because he did not believe that they would lead to any- 
thing serious, and there was no use in disturbing her 
unnecessarily with visions of future annoyance. If 
Orsino chose to speak of it to her, he was at liberty to 
do so. 


CHAPTER X. 

Orsino went directly to San Giacinto’s house, and found 
him in the room which he used for working and in which 
he received the many persons whom he was often obliged 
to see on business. The giant was alone and was seated 
behind a broad polished table, occupied in writing. 

L 


146 


DON ORSINO. 


Orsino was struck by the extremely orderly arrangement 
of everything he saw. Papers were tied together in 
bundles of exactly like shape, which lay in two lines of 
mathematical precision. The big inkstand was just in 
the middle of the rows and a paper-cutter, a pen-rack 
and an erasing knife lay side by side in front of it. The 
walls were lined with low book-cases of a heavy and 
severe type, filled principally with documents neatly filed 
in volumes and marked on the back in San Giacinto ? s 
clear handwriting. The only object of beauty in the 
room was a full-length portrait of Plavia by a great 
artist, which hung above the fireplace. The rigid 
symmetry of everything was made imposing by the size 
of the objects — the table was larger than ordinary tables, 
the easy-chairs were deeper, broader and lower than 
common, the inkstand was bigger, even the penholder in 
San Giacinto’ s fingers was longer and thicker than any 
Orsino had ever seen. And yet the latter felt that there 
was no affectation about all this. The man to whom 
these things belonged and who used them daily was 
himself created on a scale larger than other men. 

Though he was older than Sant’ Ilario and was, in 
fact, not far from sixty years of age San Giacinto might 
easily have passed for less than fifty. There was hardly 
a grey thread in his short, thick, black hair, and he was 
still as lean and strong, and almost as active, as he had 
been thirty years earlier. The large features were per- 
haps a little more bony and the eyes somewhat deeper 
than they had been, but these changes lent an air of 
dignity rather than of age to the face. 

He rose to meet Orsino and then made him sit down 
beside the table. The young man suddenly felt an un- 
accountable sense of inferiority and hesitated as to how 
he should begin. 

“I suppose you want to consult me about something,” 
said San Giacinto quietly. 

“Yes. I want to ask your advice, if you will give it 
to me — about a matter of business.” 


DON ORSINO. 


147 


“ Willingly. What is it?” 

Orsino was silent for a moment and stared at the wall. 
He was conscious that the very small sum of which he 
could dispose must seem even smaller in the eyes of such 
a man, but this did not disturb him. He was oppressed 
by San Giacinto 5 s personality and prepared himself to 
speak as though he had been a student undergoing oral 
examination. He stated his case plainly, when he at 
last spoke. He was of age and he looked forward with 
dread to an idle life. All careers were closed to him. 
He had fifteen thousand francs in his pocket. Could San 
Giacinto help him to occupy himself by investing the sum 
in a building speculation? Was the sum sufficient as a 
beginning? Those were the questions. 

San Giacinto did not laugh as Sant 5 Ilario had done. 
He listened very attentively to the end and then deliber- 
ately offered Orsino a cigar and lit one himself, before 
he delivered his answer. 

“You are asking the same question which is put to me 
very often , 55 he said at last. “I wish I could give you 
any encouragement. I cannot . 55 

Orsino 5 s face fell, for the reply was categorical. He 
drew back a little in his chair, but said nothing. 

“ That is my answer , 55 continued San Giacinto thought- 
fully, “but when one says ‘no 5 to another the subject is 
not necessarily exhausted. On the contrary, in such a 
case as this I cannot let you go without giving you my 
reasons. I do not care to give my views to the public, 
but such as they are, you are welcome to them. The 
time is past. That is why I advise you to have nothing 
to do with any speculation of this kind. That is the 
best of all reasons . 55 

“ But you yourself are still engaged in this business , 55 
objected Orsino. 

“Not so deeply as you fancy. I have sold almost 
everything which I do not consider a certainty, and am 
selling what little I still have as fast as I can. In spec- 
ulation there are only two important moments — the 


148 


DON ORSINO. 


moment to buy and the moment to sell. In my opinion 
this is the time to sell, and I do not think that the time 
for buying will come again without a crisis.” 

“But everything is in such a flourishing state ” 

“No doubt it is — to-day. But no one can tell what 
state business will be in next week, nor even to- 
morrow.” 

“There is Del Ferice ” 

“No doubt, and a score like him,” answered San 
Giacinto, looking quietly at Orsino. “Del Ferice is a 
banker, and I am a speculator, as you wish to be. His 
position is different from ours. It is better to leave him 
out of the question. Let us look at the matter logically. 
You wish to speculate ” 

“Excuse me,” said Orsino, interrupting him. “I 
want to try what I can do in business.” 

“You wish to risk money, in one way or another. 
You therefore wish one or more of three things — 
money for its own sake, excitement or occupation. I 
can hardly suppose that you want money. Eliminate 
that. Excitement is not a legitimate aim, and you can 
get it more safely in other ways. Therefore you want 
occupation.” 

“That is precisely what I said at the beginning,” 
observed Orsino with a shade of irritation. 

“ Yes. But I like to reach my conclusions in my own 
way. You are then a young man in search of an occu- 
pation. Speculation, and what you propose is nothing 
else, is no more an occupation than playing at the public 
lottery and much less one than playing at baccarat. 
There at least you are responsible for your own mis- 
takes and in decent society you are safe from the machi- 
nations of dishonest people. That would matter less if 
the chances were in your favour, as they might have 
been a year ago and as they were in mine from the 
beginning. They are against you now, because it is too 
late, and they are against me. I would as soon buy a 
piece of land on credit at the present moment, as give 


DON ORSINO. 


149 


the whole sum in cash to the first man I met in the 
street.” 

“ Yet there is Montevarchi who still buys ” 

“ Montevarchi is not worth the paper on which he signs 
his name,” said San Giacinto calmly. 

Orsino uttered an exclamation of surprise and in- 
credulity. 

“You may tell him so, if you please,” answered the 
giant with perfect indifference. “ If you tell any one 
what I have said, please to tell him first, that is all. 
He will not believe you. But in six months he will 
know it, I fancy, as well as I know it now. He might 
have doubled his fortune, but he was and is totally 
ignorant of business. He thought it enough to invest 
all he could lay hands on and that the returns would be 
sure. He has invested forty millions and owns property 
which he believes to be worth sixty, but which will not 
bring ten in six months, and those remaining ten millions 
he owes on all manner of paper, on mortgages on his 
original property, in a dozen ways which he has for- 
gotten himself.” 

“ I do not see how that is possible ! ” exclaimed Orsino. 

“I am a plain man, Orsino, and I am your cousin. 
You may take it for granted that I am right. Do not 
forget that I was brought up in a hand-to-hand struggle 
for fortune such as you cannot dream of. When I was 
your age I was a practical man of business, and I had 
taught myself, and it was all on such a small scale that 
a mistake of a hundred francs made the difference be- 
tween profit and loss. I dislike details, but I have been 
a man of detail all my life, by force of circumstances. 
Successful business implies the comprehension of details. 
It is tedious work, and if you mean to try it you must 
begin at the beginning. You ought to do so. There is 
an enormous business before you, with considerable 
capabilities in it. If I were in your place, I would take 
what fell naturally to my lot.” 

“What is that?” 


150 


DON ORSINO. 


“Farming. They call it agriculture in parliament, 
because they do not know what farming means. The 
men who think that Italy can live without farmers are 
fools. We are not a manufacturing people any more 
than we are a business people. The best dictator for us 
would be a practical farmer, a ploughman like Cincin- 
natus. Nobody who has not tried to raise wdieat on an 
Italian mountain-side knows the great difficulties or the 
great possibilities of our country. Do you know that 
bad as our farming is, and absurd as is our system of 
land taxation, we are food exporters, to a small extent? 
The beginning is there. Take my advice, be a farmer. 
Manage one of the big estates you have amongst you 
for five or six years. You will not do much good to 
the land in that time, but you will learn what land really 
means. Then go into parliament and tell people facts. 
That is an occupation and a career as well, which can- 
not be said of speculation in building lots, large or 
small. If you have any ready money keep it in govern- 
ment bonds until you have a chance of buying something 
worth keeping.” 

Orsino went away disappointed and annoyed. San 
Giacinto 7 s talk about farming seemed very dull to him. 
To bury himself for half a dozen years in the country in 
order to learn the rotation of* crops and the principles of 
land draining did not present itself as an attractive 
career. If San Giacinto thought farming the great pro- 
fession of the future, why did he not try it himself? 
Orsino dismissed the idea rather indignantly, and his 
determination to try his luck became stronger by the 
opposition it met. Moreover he had expected very 
different language from San Giacinto, whose sober view 
jarred on Orsino’s enthusiastic impulse. 

But he now found himself in considerable difficulty. 
He was ignorant even of the first steps to be taken, and 
knew no one to whom he could apply for information. 
There was Prince Monte varchi indeed, who though he 
was San Giacinto’s brother-in-law, seemed by the latter’s 


DON ORSINO. 


151 


account to have got into trouble. He did not under- 
stand how San Giacinto could allow his wife’s brother to 
ruin himself without lending him a helping hand, but 
San Giacinto was not the kind of man of whom people 
ask indiscreet questions, and Orsino had heard that the 
two men were not on the best of terms. Possibly good 
advice had been offered and refused. Such affairs gener- 
ally end in a breach of friendship. However that might 
be, Orsino would not go to Montevarchi. 

He wandered aimlessly about the streets, and the 
money seemed to burn in his pocket, though he had care- 
fully deposited it in a place of safety at home. Again 
and again Del Fer ice’s story of the carpenter and his 
two companions recurred to his mind. He wondered 
liow they had set about beginning, and he wished he 
could ask Del Ferice himself. He could not go to the 
man’s house, but he might possibly meet him at Maria 
Consuelo’s. He was surprised to find that he had 
almost forgotten her in his anxiety to become a man of 
business. It was too early to call yet, and in order to 
kill the time he went home, got a horse from the stables 
and rode out into the country for a couple of hours. 

At half-past five o’clock he entered the familiar little 
sitting-room in the hotel. Madame d’Aranjuez was alone, 
cutting a new book with the jewelled knife which con- 
tinued to be the only object of the kind visible in the 
room. She smiled as Orsino entered, and she laid aside 
the volume as he sat down in his accustomed place. 

“ I thought you were not coming, ” she said. 

“Why?” 

“You always come at five. It is half-past to-day.” 

Orsino looked at his watch. 

“ Do you notice whether I come or not? ” he asked. 

Maria Consuelo glanced at his face, and laughed. 

“What have you been doing to-day?” she asked. 
“That is much more interesting.” 

“Is it? I am afraid not. I have been listening to 
those disagreeable things which are called truths by the 


152 


DON CXRSINO. 


people who say them. I have listened to two lectures 
delivered by two very intelligent men for my especial 
benefit. It seems to me that as soon as I make a good 
resolution it becomes the duty of sensible people to 
demonstrate that I am a fool.” 

“ You are not in a good humour. Tell me all about it.” 

“ And weary you with my grievances? No. Is Del 
Eerice coming this afternoon? ” 

“How can I tell? He does not come often.” 

“I thought he came almost every day,” said Orsino 
gloomily. 

He was disappointed, but Maria Consuelo did not un- 
derstand what was the matter. She leaned forward in 
her low seat, her chin resting upon one hand, and her 
tawny eyes fixed on Orsino’ s. 

“Tell me, my friend — are you unhappy? Can I do 
anything? Will you tell me? ” 

It was not easy to resist the appeal. Though the two 
had grown intimate of late, there had hitherto always 
been something cold and reserved behind her outwardly 
friendly manner. To-day she seemed suddenly willing 
to be different. Her easy, graceful attitude, her soft 
voice full of promised sympathy, above all the look in 
her strange eyes revealed a side of her character which 
Orsino had not suspected and which affected him in a 
way he could not have described. 

Without hesitation he told her his story, from begin- 
ning to end, simply, without comment and without any 
of the cutting phrases which came so readily to his 
tongue on most occasions. She listened very thought- 
fully to the end. 

“Those things are not misfortunes,” she said. “But 
they may be the beginnings of unhappiness. To be un- 
happy is worse than any misfortune. What right has 
your father to laugh at you? Because he never needed 
to do anything for himself, he thinks it absurd that his 
son should dislike the lazy life that is prepared for him. 
It is not reasonable — it is not kind ! ” 


DON ORSINO. 


153 


“Yet he means to be both, I suppose,” said Orsino 
bitterly. 

“ Oh, of course ! People always mean to be the soul of 
logic and the paragon of charity ! Especially where their 
own children are concerned.” 

Maria Consuelo added the last words with more feel- 
ing than seemed justified by her sympathy for Orsino’ s 
woes. The moment was perhaps favourable for asking 
a leading question about herself, and her answer might 
have thrown light on her problematic past. But Orsino 
was too busy with his own troubles to think of that, and 
the opportunity slipped by and was lost. 

“You know now why I want to see Del Ferice,” he 
said. “ I cannot go to his house. My only chance of 
talking to him lies here.” 

“And that is what brings you? You are very flat- 
tering ! ” 

“Do not be unjust! We all look forward to meeting 
our friends in heaven.” 

“Very pretty. I forgive you. But I am afraid that 
you will not meet Del Ferice. I do not think he has 
left the Chambers yet. There was to be a debate this 
afternoon in which he had to speak.” 

“Does he make speeches? ” 

“ Very good ones. I have heard him.” 

“I have never been inside the Chambers,” observed 
Orsino. 

“ You are' not very patriotic. You might go there and 
ask for Del Ferice. You could see him without going to 
his house — without compromising your dignity.” 

“ Why do you laugh? ” 

“Because it all seems to me so absurd. You know 
that you are perfectly free to go and see him when and 
where you will. There is nothing to prevent you. He 
is the one man of all others whose advice you need. He 
has an unexceptional position in the world — no doubt he 
has done strange things, but so have dozens of people 
whom you know — his present reputation is excellent, 


154 


DON OBSINO. 


I say. And yet, because some twenty years ago, when 
you were a child, he held one opinion and your father 
held another, you are interdicted from crossing his 
threshold! If you can shake hands with him here, you 
can take his hand in his own house. Is not that true?” 

“ Theoretically, I daresay * but not in practice. You 
see it yourself. You have chosen one side from the 
first, and all the people on the other side know it. As 
a foreigner, you are not bound to either, and you can 
know everybody in time, if you please. Society is not 
so prejudiced as to object to that. But because you 
begin with the Del Ferice in a very uncompromising 
way, it would take a long time for you to know the 
Montevarchi, for instance.” 

“Who told you that I was a foreigner?” asked Maria 
Consuelo, rather abruptly. 

“You yourself ” 

“ That is good authority ! ” She laughed. “ I do not 
remember — ah! because I do not speak Italian? You 
mean that? One may forget one’s own language, or for 
that, matter one may never have learned it.” 

“Are you Italian, then, Madame?” asked Orsino, sur- 
prised that she should lead the conversation so directly 
to a point which he had supposed must be reached by a 
series of tactful approaches. 

“Who knows? I am sure I do not. My father was 
Italian. Does that constitute nationality?” 

“Yes. But the woman takes the nationality of her 
husband, I believe,” said Orsino, anxious to hear more. 

“Ah yes — poor Aranjuez!” Maria Consuelo’s voice 
suddenly took that sleepy tone which Orsino had heard 
more than once. Her eyelids drooped a little and she 
lazily opened and shut her hand, and spread out the 
fingers and looked at them. 

But Orsino was not satisfied to let the conversation 
drop at this point, and after a moment’s pause he put a 
decisive question. 

“ And was Monsieur d’ Aranjuez also Italian?” he asked. 


DON ORSINO. 


155 


“What does it matter?” she asked in the same indo- 
lent tone. “Yes, since you ask me, he was Italian, 
poor man.” 

Orsino was more and more puzzled. That the name 
did not exist in Italy he was almost convinced. He 
thought of the story of the Signor Aragno, who had 
fallen overboard in the south seas, and then he was sud- 
denly aware that he could not believe in anything of 
the sort. Maria Consuelo did not betray a shade of 
emotion, either, at the mention of her deceased husband. 
She seemed absorbed in the contemplation of her hands. 
Orsino had not been rebuked for his curiosity and would 
have asked another question if he had known how to 
frame it. An awkward silence followed. Maria Con- 
suelo raised her eyes slowly and looked thoughtfully into 
Orsino ? s face. 

“I see,” she said at last. “You are curious. 1 do 
not know whether you have any right to be — have you? ” 

“ I wish I had ! ” exclaimed Orsino thoughtlessly. 

Again she looked at him in silence for some moments. 

“ I have not known you long enough, ” she said. “ And 
if I had known you longer, perhaps it would not be dif- 
ferent. Are other people curious, too? Do they talk 
about me? ” 

“ The people I know do — but they do not know you. 
They see your name in the papers, as a beautiful Spanish 
princess. Yet everybody is aware that there is no 
Spanish nobleman of your name. Of course they are 
curious. They invent stories about you, which I deny. 
If I knew more, it would be easier.” 

“Why do you take the trouble to deny such things?” 

She asked the question with a change of manner. 
Once more she leaned forward and her face softened 
wonderfully as she looked at him. 

“Can you not guess? ” he asked. 

He was conscious of a very unusual emotion, not at 
all in harmony with the imaginary character he had 
chosen for himself, and which he generally maintained 


156 


DON ORSINO. 


with considerable success. Maria Consuelo was one per- 
son when she leaned back in her chair, laughing or idly 
listening to his talk, or repulsing the insignificant dec- 
larations of devotion which were not even meant to be 
taken altogether in earnest. She was pretty then, at- 
tractive, graceful, feminine, a little artificial, perhaps, 
and Orsino felt that he was free to like her or not, as he 
pleased, but that he pleased to like her for the present. 
She was quite another woman to-day, as she bent for- 
ward, her tawny eyes growing darker and more mysteri- 
ous every moment, her auburn hair casting wonderful 
shadows upon her broad pale forehead, her lips not 
closed as usual, but slightly parted, her fragrant breath 
just stirring the quiet air Orsino breathed. Her features 
might be irregular. It did not matter. She was beauti- 
ful for the moment with a kind of beauty Orsino had 
never seen, and which produced a sudden and over- 
whelming effect upon him. 

“ Do you not know?” he asked again, and his voice 
trembled unexpectedly. 

“ Thank you, ” she said softly and she touched his hand 
almost caressingly. 

But when he would have taken it, she drew back 
instantly and was once more the woman whom he saw 
every day, careless, indifferent, pretty. 

“Why do you change so quickly?” he asked in a low 
voice, bending towards her. “ Why do you snatch your 
hand away? Are you afraid of me?” 

“Why should I be afraid? Are you dangerous?” 

“You are. You may be fatal, for all I know.” 

“How foolish!” she exclaimed, with a quick glance. 

“You are Madame d’Aranjuez, now,” he answered. 
“We had better change the subject.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“A moment ago you were Consuelo,” he said boldly. 

“Have I given you any right to say that?” 

“A little.” 

“ I am sorry. I will be more careful. I am sure I 


DON ORSINO. 


157 


cannot imagine why yon should think of me at all, 
unless when you are talking to me, and then I do not 
wish to be called by my Christian name. I assure you, 
you are never anything in my thoughts but His Excel- 
lency Prince Orsino Saracinesca — with as many titles 
after that as may belong to you.” 

“I have none,” said Orsino. 

Her speech irritated him strongly, and the illusion 
which had been so powerful a few moments earlier all 
but disappeared. 

“Then you advise me to go and find Del Ferice at 
Monte Citorio,” he observed. 

“If you like.” She laughed. “There is no mistak- 
ing your intention when you mean to change the sub- 
ject,” she added. 

“You made it sufficiently clear that the other was dis- 
agreeable to you.” 

“I did not mean to do so.” 

“ Then in heaven’s name, what do you mean, 
Madame?” he asked, suddenly losing his head in his 
extreme annoyance. 

Maria Consuelo raised her eyebrows in surprise. 

“Why are you so angry?” she asked. “Do you 
know that it is very rude to speak like that?” 

“ I cannot help it. What have I done to-day that you 
should torment me as you do?” 

“I? I torment you? My dear friend, you are quite 
mad.” 

“I know I am. You make me so.” 

“Will you tell me how? What have I done? What 
have I said? You Romans are certainly the most ex- 
traordinary people. It is impossible to please you. If 
one laughs, you become tragic. If one is serious, you 
grow gay! I wish I understood you better.” 

“ You will end by making it impossible for me to un- 
derstand myself,” said Orsino. “You say that I am 
changeable. Then what are you? ” 

“Very much the same to-day as yesterday,” said Maria 


158 


DON ORSINO. 


Consuelo calmly. “And I do not suppose that I shall 
be very different to-morrow.” 

“ At least I will take my chance of finding that you are 
mistaken,” said Orsino, rising suddenly, and standing 
before her. 

“ Are you going? ” she asked, as though she were sur- 
prised. 

“Since I cannot please you.” 

“Since you will not.” 

“I do not know how.” 

“Be yourself — the same that you always are. You 
are affecting to be some one else, to-day.” 

“I fancy it is the other way,” answered Orsino, with 
more truth than he really owned to himself. 

“Then I prefer the affectation to the reality.” 

“As you will, Madame. Good evening.” 

He crossed the room to go out. She called him back. 

“ Don Orsino ! ” 

He turned sharply round. 

“Madame?” 

Seeing that he did not move, she rose and went to 
him. He looked down into her face and saw that it was 
changed again. 

“ Are you really angry? ” she asked. There was some- 
thing girlish in the way she asked the question, and, for 
a moment, in her whole manner. 

Orsino could not help smiling. But he said nothing. 

“No, you are not,” she continued. “ I can see it. Do 
you know? I am very glad. It was foolish of me to 
tease you. You will forgive me? This once?” 

“If you will give me warning the next time.” He 
found that he was looking into her eyes. 

“What is the use of warning?” she asked. 

They were very close together, and there was a 
moment’s silence. Suddenly Orsino forgot everything 
and bent down, clasping her in his arms and kissing her 
again and again. It was brutal, rough, senseless, but 
he could not help it. 


DON ORSINO. 


159 


Maria Consuelo uttered a short, sharp cry, more of 
surprise, perhaps, than of horror. To Orsino’ s amaze- 
ment and confusion her voice was immediately answered 
by another, which was that of the dark and usually silent 
maid, whom he had seen once or twice. The woman ran 
into the room, terrified by the cry she had heard. 

“Madame felt faint in crossing the room, and was 
falling when I caught her,” said Orsino, with a coolness 
that did him credit. 

And, in fact, Maria Consuelo closed her eyes as he let 
her sink into the nearest chair. The maid fell on her 
knees beside her mistress and began chafing her hands. 

“The poor Signora!” she exclaimed. “She should 
never be left alone ! She has not been herself since the 
poor Signore died. You had better leave us, sir — I will 
put her to bed when she revives. It often happens — 
pray do not be anxious ! ” 

Orsino picked up his hat and left the room. 

“ Oh — it often happens, does it? ” he said to himself 
as he closed the door softly behind him and walked down 
the corridor of the hotel. 

He was more amazed at his own boldness than he cared 
to own. He had not supposed that scenes of this de- 
scription produced themselves so very unexpectedly, and, 
as it were, without any fixed intention on the part of the 
chief actor. He remembered that he had been very 
angry with Madame d’Aranjuez, that she had spoken 
half a dozen words, and that he had felt an irresistible 
impulse to kiss her. He had done so, and he thought 
with considerable trepidation of their next meeting. 
She had screamed, which showed that she was outraged 
by his boldness. It was doubtful whether she would 
receive him again. The best thing to be done, he 
thought, was to write her a very humble letter of 
apology, explaining his conduct as best he could. This 
did not accord very well with his principles, but he had 
already transgressed them in being so excessively hasty. 
Her eyes had certainly been provoking in the extreme, 


160 


DON ORSINO. 


and it had been impossible to resist the expression on 
her lips. But at all events, he should have begun by 
kissing her hand, which she would certainly not have 
withdrawn again — then he might have put his arm round 
her and drawn her head to his shoulder. These were 
preliminaries in the matter of kissing which it was un- 
doubtedly right to observe, and he had culpably neg- 
lected them. He had been abominably brutal, and he 
ought to apologise. Nevertheless, he would not have 
forfeited the recollection of that moment for all the other 
recollections of his life, and he knew it. As he walked 
along the street he felt a wild exhilaration such as he 
had never known before. He owned gladly to himself 
that he loved Maria Consuelo, and resolutely thrust 
away the idea that his boyish vanity was pleased by the 
snatching of a kiss. 

Whatever the real nature of his delight might be it 
was for the time so sincere that he even forgot to light a 
cigarette in order to think over the circumstances. 

Walking rapidly up the Corso he came to the Piazza 
Colonna, and the glare of the electric light somehow re- 
called him to himself. 

“ Great speech of the Honourable Del Ferice ! ” yelled 
a newsboy in his ear. “Ministerial crisis! Horrible 
murder of a grocer ! ” 

Orsino mechanically turned to the right in the direc- 
tion of the Chambers. Del Ferice had probably gone 
home, since his speech was already in print. But fate 
had ordained otherwise. Del Ferice had corrected his 
proofs on the spot and had lingered to talk with his 
friends before going home. Not that it mattered much, 
for Orsino could have found him as well on the follow- 
ing day. His brougham was standing in front of the 
great entrance and he himself was shaking hands with a 
tall man under the light of the lamps. Orsino went up 
to him. 

“ Could you spare me a quarter of an hour? ” asked the 
young man in a voice constrained by excitement. He 


DON ORSINO. 


161 


felt that he was embarked at last upon his great enter- 
prise. 

Del Ferice looked up in some astonishment. He had 
reason to dread the quarrelsome disposition of the Sara- 
cinesca as a family, and he wondered what Orsino 
wanted. 

“Certainly, certainly, Don Orsino,” he answered, with 
a particularly bland smile. “ Shall we drive, or at least 
sit in my carriage? I am a little fatigued with my exer- 
tions to-day.” 

The tall man bowed and strolled away, biting the end 
of an unlit cigar. 

“It is a matter of business,” said Orsino, before enter- 
ing the carriage. “ Can you help me to try my luck — in 
a very small way — in one of the building enterprises you 
manage? ” 

“Of course I can, and will,” answered Del Ferice, 
more and more astonished. “After you, my dear Don 
Orsino, after you,” he repeated, pushing the young man 
into the brougham. “Quiet streets — till I stop you,” 
he said to the footman, as he himself got in. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Del Ferice was surprised beyond measure at Orsino’s 
request, and was not guilty of any profoundly nefarious 
intention when he so readily acceded to it. His own 
character made him choose as a rule to refuse nothing 
that was asked of him, though his promises were not 
always fulfilled afterwards. To express his own willing- 
ness to help those who asked, was of course not the same 
as asserting his power to give assistance when the time 
should come. In the present case he did not even make 
up his mind which of two courses he would ultimately 
pursue. Orsino came to him with a small sum of ready 

M 


162 


DON ORSINO. 


money in his hand. Del Ferice had it in his power to 
make him lose that sum, and a great deal more besides, 
thereby causing the boy endless trouble with his family; 
or else the banker could, if he pleased, help him to a 
very considerable success. His really superior talent for 
diplomacy inclined him to choose the latter plan, but he 
was far too cautious to make any hasty decision. 

The brougham rolled on through quiet and ill-lighted 
streets, and Del Ferice leaned back in his corner, not 
listening at all to Orsino’s talk, though he occasionally 
uttered a polite though utterly unintelligible syllable or 
two which might mean anything agreeable to his com- 
panion’s views. The situation was easy enough to un- 
derstand, and he had grasped it in a moment. What 
Orsino might say was of no importance whatever, but 
the consequences of any action on Del Fence’s part 
might be serious and lasting. 

Orsino stated his many reasons for wishing to engage 
in business, as he had stated them more than once 
already during the day and during the past weeks, and 
when he had finished he repeated his first question. 

“Can you help me to try my luck?” he asked. 

Del Ferice awoke from his reverie with characteristic 
readiness and realised that he must say something. His 
voice had never been strong and he leaned out of his 
corner of the carriage in order to speak near Orsino’s 
ear. 

“I am delighted with all you say,” he began, “and I 
scarcely need repeat that my services are altogether at 
your disposal. The only question is, how are we to 
begin? The sum. you mention is certainly not large, but 
that does not matter. You would have little difficulty 
in raising as many hundreds of thousands as you have 
thousands, if money were necessary. But in business of 
this kind the only ready money needed is for stamp duty 
and for the wages of workmen, and the banks advance 
what is necessary for the latter purpose, in small sums 
on notes of hand guaranteed by a general mortgage. 


DON ORSINO. 


163 


When you have paid the stamp duties, you may go to the 
club and lose the balance of your capital at baccarat if 
you please. The loss in that direction will not affect 
your credit as a contractor. All that is very simple. 
You wish to succeed, however, not at cards, but at busi- 
ness. That is the difficulty.” 

Del Ferice paused. 

“That is not very clear to me,” observed Orsino. 

“No — no,” answered Del Ferice thoughtfully. “No 
— I daresay it is not so very clear. I wish I could make 
it clearer. Speculation means gambling only when the 
speculator is a gambler. Of course there are successful 
gamblers in the world, but there are not many of them. 
I read somewhere the other day that business was the 
art of handling other people’s money. The remark is 
not particularly true. Business is the art of creating a 
value where none has yet existed. That is what you wish 
to do. I do not think that a Saracinesca would take 
pleasure in turning over money not belonging to him.” 

“ Certainly not ! ” exclaimed Orsino. “ That is usury.” 

“Not exactly, but it is banking; and banking, it is 
quite true, is usury within legal bounds. There is no 
question of that here. The operation is simple in the 
extreme. I sell you a piece of land on the understand- 
ing that you will build upon it, and instead of payment 
you give me a mortgage. I lend you money from month 
to month in small sums at a small interest, to pay for 
material and labour. You are only responsible upon one 
point. The money is to be used for the purpose stated. 
When the building is finished you sell it. If you sell 
it for cash, you pay off the mortgage, and receive the 
difference. If you sell it with the mortgage, the buyer 
becomes the mortgager and only pays you the difference, 
which remains yours, out and out. That is the whole 
process from beginning to end.” 

“ How wonderfully simple ! ” 

“It is almost primitive in its simplicity,” answered 
Del Ferice gravely. “But in every case two difficulties 


164 


DON ORSINO. 


present themselves, and I am bound to tell you that they 
are serious ones.” 

“What are they?” 

“You must know how to buy in the right part of the 
city and you must have a competent assistant. The two 
conditions are indispensable.” 

“What sort of an assistant?” asked Orsino. 

“ A practical man. If possible, an architect, who will 
then have a share of the profits instead of being paid for 
his work.” 

“Is it very hard to find such a person? ” 

“It is not easy.” 

“ Do you think you could help me ? ” 

“I do not know. I am assuming a great responsi- 
bility in doing so. You do not seem to realise that, 
Don Orsino.” 

Del Ferice laughed a little in his quiet way, but Orsino 
was silent. It was the first time that the banker had 
reminded him of the vast difference in their social and 
political positions. 

“I do not think it would be very wise of me to 
help you into such a business as this,” said Del Ferice 
cautiously. “I speak quite selfishly and for my own 
sake. Success is never certain, and it would be a great 
injury to me if you failed.” 

He was beginning to make up his mind. 

“Why?” asked Orsino. His own instincts of gener- 
osity were aroused. He would certainly not do Del 
Ferice an injury if he could help it, nor allow him to 
incur the risk of one. 

“If you fail,” answered the other, “all Rome will say 
that I have intentionally brought about your failure. 
You know how people talk. Thousands will become 
millions and I shall be accused of having plotted the 
destruction of your family, because your father once 
wounded me in a duel, nearly five and twenty years 
ago.” 

“ How absurd ! ” 


DON ORSINO. 


165 


“No, no. It is not absurd. I am afraid I have the 
reputation of being vindictive. Well, well — it is in bad 
taste to talk of oneself. I am good at hating, perhaps, 
but I have always felt that I preferred peace to war, and 
now I am growing old. I am not what I once was, Don 
Orsino, and I do not like quarrelling. But I would not 
allow people to say impertinent things about me, and if 
you failed and lost money, I should be abused by your 
friends, and perhaps censured by my own. Do you see? 
Yes, I am selfish. I admit it. You must forgive that 
weakness in me. I like peace.” 

“It is very natural,” said Orsino, “and I have no 
right to put you in danger of the slightest inconvenience. 
But, after all, why need I appear before the public?” 

Del Ferice smiled in the dark. 

“ True,” he answered. “ You could establish an anony- 
mous firm, so to say, and the documents would be a secret 
between you and me and the notary. Of course there 
are many ways of managing such an affair quietly.” 

He did not add that the secret could only be kept so 
long as Orsino was successful. It seemed a pity to damp 
so much good enthusiasm. 

“We will do that, then, if you will show me how. 
My ambition is not to see my name on a door-plate, but 
to be really occupied.” 

“ I understand, I understand,” said Del Ferice thought- 
fully. “ I must ask you to give me until to-morrow to 
consider the matter. It needs a little thought.” 

“Where can I find you, to hear your decision?” 

Del Ferice was silent for a moment. 

“I think I once met you late in the afternoon at 
Madame d’Aranjuez’s. We might manage to meet there 
to-morrow and come away together. Shall we name an 
hour? Would it suit you?” 

“ Perfectly, ” answered Orsino with alacrity. 

The idea of meeting Maria Consuelo alone was very 
disturbing in his present state of mind. He felt that 
he had lost his balance in his relations with her, and 


166 


DON ORSINO. 


that in order to regain it he must see her in the presence 
of a third person, if only for a quarter of an hour. It 
would be easier, then, to resume the former intercourse 
and to say whatever he should determine upon saying. 
If she were offended, she would at least not show it in 
any marked way before Del Ferice. Orsino’s existence, 
he thought, was becoming complicated for the first time, 
and though he enjoyed the vague sensation of impending 
difficulty, he wanted as many opportunities as possible 
of reviewing the situation and of meditating upon each 
new move. 

He got out of Del Ferice’s carriage at no great distance 
from his own home, and after a few words of very sincere 
thanks walked slowly away. He found it very hard to 
arrange his thoughts in any consecutive order, though 
he tried several methods of self-analysis, and repeated to 
himself that he had experienced a great happiness and 
was probably on the threshold of a great success. These 
two reflections did not help him much. The happiness 
had been of the explosive kind, and the success in the 
business matter was more than problematic, as well as 
certainly distant in the future. 

He was very restless and craved the immediate excite- 
ment of further emotions, so that he would certainly have 
gone to the club that night, had not the fear of losing 
his small and precious capital deterred him. He thought 
of all that was coming and he determined to be careful, 
even sordid if necessary, rather than lose his chance of 
making the great attempt. Besides, he would cut a poor 
figure on the morrow if he were obliged to admit to Del 
Ferice that he had lost his fifteen thousand francs and 
was momentarily penniless. He accordingly shut him- 
self up in his own room at an early hour, and smoked in 
solitude until he was sleepy, reviewing the various events 
of the day, or trying to do so, though his mind reverted 
constantly to the one chief event of all, to the unaccounta- 
ble outburst of passion by which he had perhaps offended 
Maria Consuelo beyond forgiveness . W ith all his afiecta- 


DON ORSINO. 


167 


tion of cynicism he had not learned that sin is easy only 
because it meets with such very general encouragement. 
Even if he had been aware of that undeniable fact, the 
knowledge might not have helped him very materially. 

The hours passed very slowly during the next day, 
and even when the appointed time had come, Orsino 
allowed another quarter of an hour to go by before he 
entered the hotel and ascended to the little sitting-room 
in which Maria Consuelo received. He meant to be sure 
that Del Ferice was there before entering, but he was 
too proud to watch for the latter’s coming, or to inquire 
of the porter whether Maria Consuelo were alone or not. 
It seemed simpler in every way to appear a little late. 

But Del Ferice was a busy man and not always 
punctual, so that to Orsino ’s considerable confusion, he 
found Maria Consuelo alone, in spite of his precaution. 
He was so much surprised as to become awkward, for 
the first time in his life, and he felt the blood rising in 
his face, dark as he was. 

“Will you forgive me?” he asked, almost timidly, as 
he held out his hand. 

Maria Consuelo’ s tawny eyes looked curiously at him. 
Then she smiled suddenly. 

“ My dear child,” she said, “you should not do such 
things! It is very foolish, you know.” 

The answer was so unexpected and so exceedingly 
humiliating, as Orsino thought at first, that he grew pale 
and drew back a little. But Maria Consuelo took no 
notice of his behaviour, and settled herself in her ac- 
customed chair. 

“Did you find Del Ferice last night?” she asked, 
changing the subject without the least hesitation. 

“Yes,” answered Orsino. 

Almost before the word was spoken there was a knock 
at the door and Del Ferice appeared. Orsino ’s face 
cleared, as though something pleasant had happened, 
and Maria Consuelo observed the fact. She concluded, 
naturally enough, that the two men had agreed to meet 


168 


DON ORSINO. 


in her sitting-room, and she resented the punctuality 
which she supposed they had displayed in coming almost 
together, especially after what had happened on the 
preceding day. She noted the cordiality with which 
they greeted each other and she felt sure that she was 
right. On the other hand she could not afford to show 
the least coldness to Del Ferice, lest he should suppose 
that she was annoyed at being disturbed in her conversa- 
tion with Orsino. The situation was irritating to her, 
but she made the best of it and began to talk to Del 
Ferice about the speech he had made on the previous 
evening. He had spoken well, and she found it easy to 
be just and flattering at the same time. 

“ It must be an immense satisfaction to speak as you 
do,” said Orsino, wishing to say something at least 
agreeable. 

Del Ferice acknowledged the compliment by a depreca- 
tory gesture. 

“ To speak as some of my colleagues can — yes — it must 
be a great satisfaction. But Madame d’Aranjuez exag- 
gerates. And, besides, I only make speeches when I am 
called upon to do so. Speeches are wasted in nine cases 
out of ten, too. They are, if I may say so, the music at 
the political ball. Sometimes the guests will dance, and 
sometimes they will not, but the musicians must try and 
suit the taste of the great invited. The dancing itself is 
the thing.” 

“ Deeds not words,” suggested Maria Consuelo, glanc- 
ing at Orsino, who chanced to be looking at her. 

“That is a good motto enough,” he said gloomily. 

“Deeds may need explanation, post facto,” remarked 
Del Ferice, unconsciously making such a direct allusion 
to recent events that Orsino looked sharply at him, and 
Maria Consuelo smiled. 

“That is true,” she said. 

“ And when you need any one to help you, it is neces- 
sary to explain your purpose beforehand,” observed Del 
Ferice. “ That is what happens so often in politics, and 


DON ORSINO. 


169 


in other affairs of life as well. If a man takes money 
from me without my consent, he steals, but if I agree to 
his taking it, the transaction becomes a gift or a loan. 
A despotic government steals, a constitutional one borrows 
or receives free offerings. The fact that the despot pays 
interest on a part of what he steals raises him to the 
position of the magnanimous brigand who leaves his vic- 
tims just enough money to carry them to the nearest 
town. Possibly it is after all a quibble of definitions, 
and the difference may not be so great as it seems at 
first sight. But then, all morality is but the shadow cast 
on one side or the other of a definition.” 

“ Surely that is not your political creed ! ” said Maria 
Consuelo. 

“Certainly not, Madame, certainly not,” answered Del 
Perice in gentle protest. “ It is not a creed at all, but 
only a very poor explanation of the way in which most 
experienced people look upon the events of their day. 
The idea in which we believe is very different from the 
results it has brought about, and very much higher, and 
very much better. But the results are not all bad either. 
Unfortunately the bad ones are on the surface, and the 
good ones, which are enduring, must be sought in places 
where the honest sunshine has not yet dispelled the early 
shadows.” 

Maria Consuelo smiled faintly, and the slight cast in 
her eyes was more than usually apparent, as though her 
attention were wandering. Orsino said nothing, and won- 
dered why Del Ferice continued to talk. The latter, 
indeed, was allowing himself to run on because neither 
of his hearers seemed inclined to make a remark which 
might serve to turn the conversation, and he began to 
suspect that something had occurred before his coming 
which had disturbed their equanimity. 

He presently began to talk of people instead of ideas, 
for he had no intention of being thought a bore by 
Madame d’Aranjuez, and the man who is foolish enough 
to talk of anything but his neighbours, when he has more 


170 


DON ORSINO. 


than one hearer, is in danger of being numbered with the 
tormentors. 

Half an hour passed quickly enough after the common 
chord had been struck, and Del Ferice and Orsino ex- 
changed glances of intelligence, meaning to go away 
together as had been agreed. Del Ferice rose first, and 
Orsino took up his hat. To his surprise and consterna- 
tion Maria Consuelo made a quick and imperative sign 
to him to remain. Del Fence’s dull blue eyes saw most 
things that happened within the range of their vision, 
and neither the gesture nor the look that accompanied it 
escaped him. 

Orsino’ s position was extremely awkward. He had 
put Del Ferice to some inconvenience on the understand- 
ing that they were to go away together and did not wish 
to offend him by not keeping his engagement. On the 
other hand it was next to impossible to disobey Maria 
Consuelo, and to explain his difficulty to Del Ferice was 
wholly out of the question. He almost wished that the 
latter might have seen and understood the signal. But 
Del Ferice made no sign and took Maria Consuelo’ s 
offered hand, in the act of leavetaking. Orsino grew 
desperate and stood beside the two, holding his hat. 
Del Ferice turned to shake hands with him also. 

“ But perhaps you are going too, ” he said, with a dis- 
tinct interrogation. 

Orsino glanced at Maria Consuelo as though imploring 
her permission to take his leave, but her face was im- 
penetrable, calm and indifferent. 

Del Ferice understood perfectly what was taking place, 
but he found a moment while Orsino hesitated. If the 
latter had known how completely he was in Del Fence’s 
power throughout the little scene, he would have then 
and there thrown over his financial schemes in favour of 
Maria Consuelo. But Del Ferice ’s quiet, friendly man- 
ner did not suggest despotism, and he did not suffer 
Orsino ’s embarrassment to last more than five seconds. 

“ I have a little proposition to make,” said the fat 


DON ORSINO. 


171 


count, turning again to Maria Consuelo. “ My wife and 
I are alone this evening. Will you not come and dine 
with us, Madame? And you, Don Orsino, will you not 
come too? We shall just make a party of four, if you 
will both come.” 

“ I shall be enchanted ! ” exclaimed Maria Consuelo 
without hesitation. 

“I shall be delighted !” answered Orsino with an 
alacrity which surprised himself. 

“At eight then,” said Del Ferice, shaking hands with 
him again, and in a moment he was gone. 

Orsino was too much confused, and too much delighted 
at having escaped so easily from his difficulty to realise 
the importance of the step he was taking in going to Del 
Fence’ s house, or to ask himself why the latter had so 
opportunely extended the invitation. He sat down in 
his place with a sigh of relief. 

“You have compromised yourself for ever,” said 
Maria Consuelo with a scornful laugh. “You, the 
blackest of the Black, are to be numbered henceforth 
with the acquaintances of Count Del Ferice and Donna 
Tullia.” 

“What difference does it make? Besides, I could not 
have done otherwise.” 

“You might have refused the dinner.” 

“ I could not possibly have done that. To accept was 
the only way out of a great difficulty.” 

“What difficulty?” asked Maria Consuelo relentlessly. 

Orsino was silent, wondering how he could explain, 
as explain he must, without offending her. 

“You should not do such things,” she said suddenly. 
“I will not always forgive you.” 

A gleam of light which, indeed, promised little for- 
giveness, flashed in her eyes. 

“What things?” asked Orsino. 

“Do not pretend that you think me so simple,” she 
said, in a tone of irritation. “You and Del Ferice come 
here almost at the same moment. When he goes, you 


172 


DON OBSINO. 


show the utmost anxiety to go too. Of course you have 
agreed to meet here. It is evident. You might have 
chosen the steps of the hotel for your place of meeting 
instead of my sitting-room.” 

The colour rose slowly in her cheeks. She was hand- 
some when she was angry. 

“ If I had imagined that you could be displeased ” 

“Is it so surprising? Have you forgotten what hap- 
pened yesterday? You should be on your knees, asking 
my forgiveness for that — and instead, you make a con- 
venience of your visit to-day in order to meet a man of 
business. You have very strange ideas of what is due 
to a woman.” 

“Del Ferice suggested it,” said Orsino, “ and I accepted 
the suggestion.” 

“ What is Del Ferice to me, that I should be made the 
victim of his suggestions, as you call them? Besides, 
he does not know anything of your folly of yesterday, 
and he has no right to suspect it.” 

“I cannot tell you how sorry I am.” 

“ And yet you ought to tell me, if you expect that I 
will forget all this. You cannot? Then be so good as 
to do the only other sensible thing in your power, and 
leave me as soon as possible.” 

“ Forgive me, this once ! ” Orsino entreated in great 
distress, but not finding any words to express his sense 
of humiliation. 

“You are not eloquent,” she said scornfully. “You 
had better go. Do not come to the dinner this evening, 
either. I would rather not see you. You can easily 
make an excuse.” 

Orsino recovered himself suddenly. 

“ I will not go away now, and I will not give up the 
dinner to-night,” he said quietly. 

“ I cannot make you do either — but I can leave you, ” 
said Maria Consuelo, with a movement as though she 
were about to rise from her chair. 

“You will not do that,” Orsino answered. 


DON ORSINO. 


173 


She raised her eyebrows in real or affected surprise at 
his persistence. 

“You seem very sure of yourself,” she said. “Do not 
be so sure of me.” 

“I am sure that I love you. Nothing else matters.” 
He leaned forward and took her hand, so quickly that 
she had not time to prevent him. She tried to draw it 
away, but he held it fast. 

“ Let me go ! ” she cried. “ I will call, if you do not ! ” 

“Call all Eome if you will, to see me ask your for- 
giveness. Consuelo — do not be so hard and cruel — if 
you only knew how I love you, you would be sorry for 
me, you would see how I hate myself, how I despise my- 
self for all this ” 

“You might show a little more feeling,” she said, mak- 
ing a final effort to disengage her hand, and then relin- 
quishing the struggle. 

Orsino wondered whether he were really in love with 
her or not. Somehow, the words he sought did not rise 
to his lips, and he was conscious that his speech was 
not of the same temperature, so to say, as his actions. 
There was something in Maria Consuelo’s manner which 
disturbed him disagreeably, like a cold draught blowing 
unexpectedly through a warm room. Still he held her 
hand and endeavoured to rise to the occasion. 

“Consuelo! ” he cried in a beseeching tone. “Do not 
send me away — see how I am suffering — it is so easy for 
you to say that you forgive ! ” 

She looked at him a moment, and her eyelids drooped 
suddenly. 

“Will you let me go, if I forgive you?” she asked in 
a low voice. 

“Yes.” 

“I forgive you then. Well? Do you still hold my 
hand?” 

“Yes.” 

He leaned forward and tried to draw her toward him, 
looking into her eyes. She yielded a little, and their 


174 


DO N ORSINO. 


faces came a little nearer to each other, and still a little 
nearer. All at once a deep blush rose in her cheeks, she 
turned her head away and drew back quickly. 

“Not for all the world! ” she exclaimed, in a tone that 
was new to Orsino’s ear. 

He tried to take her hand again, but she would not 
give it. 

“No, no! Go — you are not to be trusted! ” she cried, 
avoiding him. 

“Why are you so unkind?” he asked, almost passion- 
ately. 

“I have been kind enough for this day,” she answered. 
“Pray go — do not stay any longer — I may regret it.” 

“My staying?” 

“No — my kindness. And do not come again for the 
present. I would rather see you at Del Fence’s than 
here.” 

Orsino was quite unable to understand her behaviour, 
and an older and more experienced man might have been 
almost as much puzzled as he. A long silence followed, 
during which his sat quite still and she looked steadily 
at the cover of a book which lay on the table. 

“Please go,” she said at last, in a voice which was not 
unkind. 

Orsino rose from his seat and prepared to obey her, 
reluctantly enough and feeling that he was out of tune 
with himself and with everything. 

“ Will you not even tell me why you send me away? ” 
he asked. 

“Because I wish to be alone,” she answered. “Good- 
bye.” 

She did not look up as he left the room, and when he 
was gone she did not move from her place, but sat as 
she had sat before, staring at the yellow cover of the 
novel on the table. 

Orsino went home in a very unsettled frame of mind, 
and was surprised to find that the lighted streets looked 
less bright and cheerful than on the previous evening, 


DON ORSINO. 


175 


and his own immediate prospects far less pleasing. He 
was angry with himself for having been so foolish as to 
make his visit to Maria Consuelo a mere appointment 
with Del Derice, and he was surprised beyond measure 
to find himself suddenly engaged in a social acquaint- 
ance with the latter, when he had only meant to enter 
into relations of business with him. Yet it did not occur 
to him that Del Ferice had in any way entrapped him 
into accepting the invitation. Del Ferice had saved him 
from a very awkward situation. Why? Because Del 
Ferice had seen the gesture Maria Consuelo had made, 
and had understood it, and wished to give Orsino another 
opportunity of discussing his project. But if Del Ferice 
had seen the quick sign, he had probably interpreted it 
in a way compromising to Madame d’Aranjuez. This 
was serious, though it was assuredly not Orsino’s fault if 
she compromised herself. She might have let him go 
without question, and since an explanation of some 
sort was necessary she might have waited until the next 
day to demand it of him. He resented what she had 
done, and yet within the last quarter of an hour, he had 
been making a declaration of love to her. He was further 
conscious that the said declaration had been wholly lack- 
ing in spirit, in passion and even in eloquence. He 
probably did not love her after all, and with an attempt 
at his favourite indifference he tried to laugh at himself. 

But the effort was not successful, and he felt some- 
thing approaching to pain as he realised that there was 
nothing to laugh at. He remembered her eyes and her 
face and the tones of her voice, and he imagined that if 
he could turn back now and see her again, he could say 
in one breath such things as would move a statue to 
kisses. The very phrases rose to his lips and he repeated 
them to himself as he walked along. 

Most unaccountable of all had been Maria Consuelo ? s 
own behaviour. Her chief preoccupation seemed to have 
been to get rid of him as soon as possible. She had been 
very seriously offended with him to-day, much more 


176 


DON ORSINO. 


deeply, indeed, than yesterday, though the cause ap- 
peared to his inexperience to be a far less adequate one. 
It was evident, he thought, that she had not really par- 
doned his want of tact, but had yielded to the necessity 
of giving a reluctant forgiveness, merely because she did 
not wish to break off her acquaintance with him. On 
the other hand, she had allowed him to say again and 
again that he loved her, and she had not forbidden him 
to call her by her name. 

He had always heard that it was hard to understand 
women, and he began to believe it. There was one 
hypothesis which he had not considered. It was faintly 
possible that she loved him already, though he was slow 
to believe that, his vanity lying in another direction. 
But even .if she did, matters were not clearer. The sup- 
position could not account for her sending him away so 
abruptly and with such evident intention. If she loved 
him, she would naturally, he supposed, wish him to stay 
as long as possible. She had only wished to keep him 
long enough to tell him how angry she was. He re- 
sented that again, for he was in the humour to resent 
most things. 

It was all extremely complicated, and Orsino began to 
think that he might find the complication less interest- 
ing than he had expected a few hours earlier. He had 
little time for reflection either, since he was to meet 
both Maria Consuelo and Del Ferice at dinner. He felt 
as though the coming evening were in a measure to 
decide his future existence, and it was indeed destined 
to exercise a great influence upon his life, as any person 
not disturbed by the anxieties which beset him might 
easily have foreseen. 

Before leaving the house he made an excuse to his 
mother, saying that he had unexpectedly been asked to 
dine with friends, and at the appointed hour he rang at 
Del Ferice ? s door. 


DON OKSINO. 


177 


CHAPTER XII. 

Orsino looked about him with some curiosity as he 
entered Del Fence’s abode. He had never expected to 
find himself the guest of Donna Tullia and her husband 
and when he took the robust countess’s hand he was in- 
clined to wish that the whole affair might turn out to be 
a dream. In vain he repeated to himself that he was no 
longer a boy, but a grown man, of age in the eyes of the 
law to be responsible for his own actions, and old enough 
in fact to take what steps he pleased for the accomplish- 
ment of his own ends. He found no solace in the reflec- 
tion, and he could not rid himself of the idea that he had 
got himself into a very boyish scrape. It would indeed 
have been very easy to refuse Del Fence’s invitation and 
to write him a note within the hour explaining vaguely 
that circumstances beyond his control obliged him to 
ask another interview for the discussion of business 
matters. But it was too late now. He was exchanging 
indifferent remarks with Donna Tullia, while Del Ferice 
looked on benignantly, and all three waited for Madame 
d’Aranjuez. 

Five minutes had not elapsed before she came, and her 
appearance momentarily dispelled Orsino’ s annoyance 
at his own rashness. He had never before seen her 
dressed for the evening, and he had not realised how 
much to her advantage the change from the ordinary 
costume, or the inevitable “ tea-garment,” to a dinner 
gown would be. She was assuredly not over-dressed, 
for she wore black without colours and her only orna- 
ment was a single string of beautiful pearls which Donna 
Tullia believed to be false, but which Orsino accepted as 
real. Possibly he knew even more about pearls than 
the countess, for his mother had many and wore them 
often, whereas Donna Tullia preferred diamonds and 
rubies. But his eyes did not linger on the necklace, for 


178 


don onsmo. 


Maria Consuelo’s whole presence affected him strangely. 
There was something light-giving and even dazzling 
about her which he had not expected, and he understood 
for the first time that the language of the newspaper 
paragraphs was not so grossly flattering as he had sup- 
posed. In spite of the great artistic defects of feature, 
which could not long escape an observer of ordinary 
taste, it was clear that Maria Consuelo must always be 
a striking and central figure in any social assembly, 
great or small. There had been moments in Orsino’s 
acquaintance with her, when he had thought her really 
beautiful; as she now appeared, one of those moments 
seemed to have become permanent. He thought of what 
he had dared on the preceding day, his vanity was 
pleased and his equanimity restored. With a sense of 
pride which was very far from being delicate and was 
by no means well founded, he watched her as she walked 
in to dinner before him, leaning on Del Fence’s arm. 

“ Beautiful — eh? I see you think so,” whispered 
Donna Tullia in his ear. 

The countess treated him at once as an old acquaint- 
ance, which put him at his ease, while it annoyed his 
conscience. 

“Very beautiful,” he answered, with a grave nod. 

“And so mysterious,” whispered the countess again, 
just as they reached the door of the dining-room. “ She 
is very fascinating — take care ! ” 

She tapped his arm familiarly with her fan and 
laughed, as he left her at her seat. 

“ What are you two laughing at?” asked Del Ferice, 
smiling pleasantly as he surveyed the six oysters he 
found upon his plate, and considered which should be 
left until the last as the crowning tit-bit. He was fond 
of good eating, and especially fond of oysters as an intro- 
duction to the feast. 

“ What we were laughing at? How indiscreet you are, 
Ugo ! You always want to find out all my little -secrets. 
Consuelo, my dear, do you like oysters, or do you not? 


DON OESINO. 


179 


That is the question. You do, I know — a little lemon 
and a very little red pepper — I love red, even to adoring 
cayenne ! ” 

Orsino glanced at Madame d’Aranjuez, for he was sur- 
prised to hear Donna Tullia call her by her first name. 
He had not known that the two women had reached the 
first halting place of intimacy. 

Maria Consuelo smiled rather vaguely as she took the 
advice in the shape of lemon juice and pepper. Del 
Ferice could not interrupt his enjoyment of the oysters 
by words, and Orsino waited for an opportunity of say- 
ing something witty. 

“I have lately formed the highest opinion of the 
ancient Romans,” said Donna Tullia, addressing him. 
“ Do you know why? ” 

Orsino professed his ignorance. 

“ Ugo tells me that in a recent excavation twenty cart- 
loads of oyster shells were discovered behind one house. 
Think of that! Twenty cartloads to a single house! 
What a family must have lived there — indeed the Romans 
were a great people ! ” 

Orsino thought that Donna Tullia herself might pass 
for a heroine in future ages, provided that the shells of 
her victims were deposited together in a safe place. He 
laughed politely and hoped that the conversation might 
not turn upon archaeology, which was not his strong 
point. 

“ I wonder how long it will be before modern Rome is 
excavated and the foreigner of the future pays a franc 
to visit the ruins of the modern house of parliament,” 
suggested Maria Consuelo, who had said nothing as yet. 

“ At the present rate of progress, I should think about 
two years would be enough,” answered Donna Tullia. 
“But Ugo says we are a great nation. Ask him.” 

“Ah, my angel, you do not understand those things,” 
said Del Ferice. “How shall I explain? There is no 
development without decay of the useless parts. The 
snake casts its old skin before it appears with a new one. 


180 


DON ORSINO. 


And there can be no business without an occasional crisis. 
Unbroken fair weather ends in a dead calm. Why do 
you take such a gloomy view, Madame?” 

“One should never talk of things — only people are 
amusing,” said Donna Tullia, before Madame d’Aranjuez 
could answer. “ Whom have you seen to-day, Consuelo? 
And you, Don Orsino? And you, Ugo? Are we to talk 
for ever of oysters, and business and snakes? Come, 
tell me, all of you, what everybody has told you. There 
must be something new. Of course that poor Carantoni 
is going to be married again, and the Princess Befana is 
dying, as usual, and the same dear old people have run 
away with each other, and all that. Of course. I wish 
things were not always just going to happen. One 
would like to hear what is said on the day after the 
events which never come off. It would be a novelty.” 

Donna Tullia loved talk and noise, and gossip above 
all things, and she was not quite at her ease. The news 
that Orsino was to come to dinner had taken her breath 
away. Ugo had advised her to be natural, and she was 
doing her best to follow his advice. 

“ As for me, ” he said, “ I have been tormented all day, 
and have spent but one pleasant half hour. I was so 
fortunate as to find Madame d’Aranjuez at home, but 
that was enough to indemnify me for many sacrifices.” 

“ I cannot do better than say the same,” observed 
Orsino, though with far less truth. “ I believe I have 
read through a new novel, but I do not remember the 
title and I have forgotten the story.” 

“ How satisfactory ! ” exclaimed Maria Consuelo, with 
a little scorn. 

“It is the only way to read novels,” answered Orsino, 
“ for it leaves them always new to you, and the same one 
may be made to last several weeks.” 

“ I have heard it said that one should fear the man of 
one book,” observed Maria Consuelo, looking at him. 

“ For my part, I am more inclined to fear the woman 
of many.” 


DON ORSINO. 


181 


“Do you read much, my dear Consuelo?” asked Donna 
Tullia, laughing. 

“Perpetually.” 

“And is Don Orsino afraid of you?” 

“Mortally,” answered Orsino. “Madame d’Aranjuez 
knows everything.” 

“Is she blue, then?” asked Donna Tullia. 

“What shall I say, Madame?” inquired Orsino, turn- 
ing to Maria Consuelo. “ Is it a compliment to compare 
you to the sky of Italy?” 

“For blueness?” 

“No — for brightness and serenity.” 

“Thanks. That is pretty. I accept.” 

“And have you nothing for me?” asked Donna Tullia, 
with an engaging smile. 

The other two looked at Orsino, wondering what he 
would say in answer to such a point-blank demand for 
flattery. 

“Juno is still Minerva’s ally,” he said, falling back 
upon mythology, though it struck him that Del Ferice 
would make a poor Jupiter, with his fat white face and 
dull eyes. 

“ Very good ! ” laughed Donna Tullia. “ A little 
classic, but I pressed you hard. You are not easily 
caught. Talking of clever men,” she added with another 
meaning glance at Orsino, “I met your friend to-day, 
Consuelo.” 

“My friend? Who is he?” 

“Spicca, of course. Whom did you think I meant? 
We always laugh at her,” she said, turning to Orsino, 
“ because she hates him so. She does not know him, and 
has never spoken to him. It is his cadaverous face that 
frightens her. One can understand that — we of old 
Pome, have been used to him since the deluge. But a 
stranger is horrified at the first sight of him. Consuelo 
positively dreads to meet him in the street. She says 
that he makes her dream of all sorts of horrors.” 

“It is quite true,” said Maria Consuelo, with a slight 


182 


DON ORSINO. 


movement of her beautiful shoulders. “ There are peo- 
ple one would rather not see, merely because they are 
not good to look at. He is one of them and if I see him 
coming I turn away.” 

“ I know, I told him so to-day,” continued Donna 
Tullia cheerfully. “ We are old friends, but we do not 
often meet nowadays. Just fancy ! It was in that little 
antiquary’s shop in the Monte Brianzo — the first on the 
left as you go, he has good things — and I saw a bit of 
embroidery in the window that took my fancy, so I 
stopped the carriage and went in. Who should be there 
but Spicca, hat and all, looking like old Father Time. 
He was bargaining for something — a wretched old bit of 
brass — bargaining, my dear ! For a few sous ! One may 
be poor, but one has no right to be mean — I thought he 
would have got the miserable antiquary’s skin.” 

“ Antiquaries can generally take care of themselves, ” 
observed Orsino incredulously. 

“ Oh, I daresay — but it looks so badly, you know. 
That is all I mean. When he saw me he stopped wrang- 
ling and we talked a little, while I had the embroidery 
wrapped up. I will show it to you after dinner. It is 
sixteenth century, Ugo says — a piece of a chasuble — ex- 
quisite flowers on claret-coloured satin, a perfect gem, 
so rare now that everything is imitated. However, 
that is not the point. It was Spicca. I was forgetting 
my story. He said the usual things, you know — that 
he had heard that I was very gay this year, but that it 
seemed to agree with me, and so on. And I asked him 
why he never came to see me, and as an inducement I 
told him of our great beauty here — that is you, Consuelo, 
so please look delighted instead of frowning — and I told 
him that she ought to hear him talk, because his face had 
frightened her so that she ran away when she saw him 
coming towards her in the street. You see, if one 
flatters his cleverness he does not mind being called ugly 
— or at least I thought not, until to-day. But to my 
consternation he seemed angry, and he asked me almost 


DON ORSINO. 


183 


savagely if it were true that the Countess d’Aranjuez — 
that is what he called you, my dear — really tried to avoid 
him in the street. Then I laughed and said I was only 
joking, and he began to bargain again for the little brass 
frame and I went away. When I last heard his voice 
he was insisting upon seventy-five centimes, and the 
antiquary was jeering at him and asking a franc and a 
half. I wonder which got the better of the fight in the 
end. I will ask him the next time I see him.” 

Del Eerice supported his wife with a laugh at her 
story, but it was not very genuine. He had unpleasant 
recollections of Spicca in earlier days, and his name 
recalled events which Ugo would willingly have for- 
gotten. Orsino smiled politely, but resented the way in 
which Donna Tullia spoke of his father’s old friend. As 
for Maria Consuelo, she was a little pale, and looked 
tired. But the countess was irrepressible, for she feared 
lest Orsino should go away and think her dull. 

“Of course we all really like Spicca,” she said. 
“Every one does.” 

“ I do, for my part, ” said Orsino gravely. “ I have a 
great respect for him, for his own sake, and he is one of 
my father’s oldest friends.” 

Maria Consuelo looked at him very suddenly, as though 
she were surprised by what he said. She did not remem- 
ber to have heard him mention the melancholy old duel- 
list. She seemed about to say something, but changed 
her mind. 

“Yes,” said Ugo, turning the subject, “he is one of 
the old tribe that is dying out. What types there were 
in those days, and how those who are alive have 
changed! Do you remember, Tullia? But of course 
you cannot, my angel, it was far before your time.” 

One of Ugo’s favourite methods of pleasing his wife 
was to assert that she was too young to remember people 
who had indeed played a part as lately as after the death 
of her first husband. It always soothed her. 

“I remember them all,” he continued. “Old Mon- 


184 


DON OBSINO. 


tevarchi, and Frangipani, and poor Casalverde — and a 
score of others.” 

He had been on the point of mentioning old Astrardente, 
too, but checked himself. 

“Then there were the young ones, who are in mid- 
dle age now,” he went on, “such as Yaldarno and the 
Montevarchi whom you know, as different from their 
former selves as you can well imagine. Society was 
different too.” 

Del Ferice spoke thoughtfully and slowly, as though 
wishing that some one would interrupt him or take up 
the subject, for he felt that his wife’s long story about 
Spicca and the antiquary had not been a success, and his 
instinct told him that Spicca had better not be men- 
tioned again, since he was a friend of Orsino’s and since 
his name seemed to exert a depressing influence on Maria 
Consuelo. Orsino came to the rescue and began to talk 
of current social topics in a way which showed that he 
was not so profoundly prejudiced by traditional ideas as 
Del Ferice had expected. The momentary chill wore off 
quickly enough, and when the dinner ended Donna 
Tullia was sure that it had been a success. They all 
returned to the drawing-room and then Del Ferice, with- 
out any remark, led Orsino away to smoke with him in a 
distant apartment. 

“We can smoke again, when we go back,” he said. 
“ My wife does not mind and Madame d’ Aranjuez likes 
it. But it is an excuse to be alone together for a little 
while, and besides, my doctor makes me lie down for a 
quarter of an hour after dinner. You will excuse me?” 

Del Ferice extended himself upon a leathern lounge, 
and Orsino sat down in a deep easy-chair. 

“ I was so sorry not to be able to come away with you 
to-day,” said Orsino. “The truth is, Madame d’Aran- 
juez wanted some information and I was just going to 
explain that I would stay a little longer, when you asked 
us both to dinner. You must have thought me very for- 
getful.” 


DON ORSINO. 


185 


“Not at all, not at all,” answered Del Ferice. “In- 
deed, I quite supposed that you were coming with me, 
when it struck me that this would be a much more pleas- 
ant place for talking. I cannot imagine why I had not 
thought of it before — but I have so many details to think 
of.” 

Not much could be said for the veracity of either of 
the statements which the two men were pleased to make 
to each other, but Orsino had the small advantage of 
being nearer to the letter, if not to the spirit of the 
truth. Each, however, was satisfied with the other’s tact. 

“And so, Don Orsino,” continued Del Ferice after a 
short pause, “you wish to try a little operation in busi- 
ness. Yes. Very good. You have, as we said yester- 
day, a sum of money ample for a beginning. You have 
the necessary courage and intelligence. You need a 
practical assistant, however, and it is indispensable that 
the point selected for the first venture should be one 
promising speedy profit. Is that it?” 

“Precisely.” 

“ Very good, very good. I think I can offer you both 
the land and the partner, and almost guarantee your 
success, if you will be guided by me.” 

“ I have come to you for advice,” said Orsino. “ I will 
follow it gratefully. As for the success of the undertak- 
ing, I will assume the responsibility.” 

“Yes. That is better. After all, everything is uncer- 
tain in such matters, and you would not like to feel that 
you were under an obligation to me. On the other hand, 
as I told you, I am selfish and cautious. I would rather 
not appear in the transaction.” 

If any doubt as to Del Fence’s honesty of purpose 
crossed Orsino’s mind at that moment, it was fully com- 
pensated by the fact that he himself distinctly preferred 
not to be openly associated with the banker. 

“I quite agree with you,” he said. 

“Very well. Now for business. Do you know that 
it is sometimes more profitable to take over a half- 


186 


DON ORSINO. 


finished building, than to begin a new one? Often, I 
assure you, for the returns are quicker and you get a 
great deal at half price. Now, the man whom I recom- 
mend to you is a practical architect, and was employed 
by a certain baker to build a tenement building in one of 
the new quarters. The baker dies, the house is unfin- 
ished, the heirs wish to sell it as it is — there are at 
least a dozen of them — and meanwhile the work is 
stopped. My advice is this. Buy this house, go into 
partnership with the unemployed architect, agreeing to 
give him a share of the profits, finish the building and 
sell it as soon as it is habitable. In six months you will 
get a handsome return. ” 

“That sounds very tempting,” answered Orsino, “but 
it would need more capital than I have.” 

“Not at all, not at all. It is a mere question of tak- 
ing over a mortgage and paying stamp duty.” 

“ And how about the difference in ready money, which 
ought to go to the present owners?” 

“ I see that you are already beginning to understand 
the principles of business,” said Del Berice, with an 
encouraging smile. “But in this case the owners are 
glad to get rid of the house on any terms by which they 
lose nothing, for they are in mortal fear of being ruined 
by it, as they probably will be if they hold on to it.” 

“Then why should I not lose, if I take it?” 

“ That is just the difference. The heirs are a number 
of incapable persons of the lower class, who do not un- 
derstand these matters. If they attempted to go on they 
would soon find themselves entangled in the greatest 
difficulties. They would sink where you will almost 
certainly swim.” 

Orsino was silent for a moment. There was some- 
thing despicable, to his thinking, in profiting by the loss 
of a wretched baker’s heirs. 

“It seems to me,” he said presently, “that if I succeed 
in this, I ought to give a share of the profits to the pres- 
ent owners.” 


DON ORSINO. 


187 


Not a muscle of Del Fence’s face moved, but his dull 
eyes looked curiously at Orsino’s young face. 

“That sort of thing is not commonly done in business,” 
he said quietly, after a short pause. “As a rule, men 
who busy themselves with affairs do so in the hope of 
growing rich, but I can quite understand that where 
business is a mere pastime, as it is to be in your case, a 
man of generous instincts may devote the proceeds to 
charity.” 

“It looks more like justice than charity to me,” 
observed Orsino. 

“ Call it what you will, but succeed first and consider 
the uses of your success afterwards. That is not my 
affair. The baker’s heirs are not especially deserving 
people, I believe. In fact they are said to have hastened 
his death in the hope of inheriting his wealth and are 
disappointed to find that they have got nothing. If you 
wish to be philanthropic you might wait until you have 
cleared a large sum and then give it to a school or a 
hospital.” 

“ That is true, ” said Orsino. “ In the meantime it is 
important to begin.” 

“We can begin to-morrow, if you please. You will 
find me at the bank at mid-day. I will send for the 
architect and the notary and we can manage everything 
in forty-eight hours. Before the week is out you can be 
at work.” 

“So soon as that?” 

“Certainly. Sooner, by hurrying matters a little.” 

“ As soon as possible then. And I will go to the bank 
at twelve o’clock to-morrow. A thousand thanks for all 
your good offices, my dear count.” 

“It is a pleasure, I assure you.” 

Orsino was so much pleased with Del Ferice’s quick 
and business-like way of arranging matters that he began 
to look upon him as a model to imitate, so far as execu- 
tive ability was concerned. It was odd enough that any 
one of his name should feel anything like admiration for 


188 


DON ORSINO. 


Ugo, but friendship and hatred are only the opposite 
points at which the social pendulum pauses before it 
swings backward, and they who live long may see many 
oscillations. 

The two men went back to the drawing-room where 
Donna Tullia and Maria Consuelo were discussing the 
complicated views of the almighty dressmaker. Orsino 
knew that there was little chance of his speaking a word 
alone with Madame d’Aranjuez and resigned himself to 
the effort of helping the general conversation. Fortu- 
nately the time to be got over in this way was not long, 
as all four had engagements in the evening. Maria 
Consuelo rose at half -past ten, but Orsino determined to 
wait five minutes longer, or at least to make a show of 
meaning to do so. But Donna Tullia put out her hand 
as though she expected him to take his leave at the same 
time. She was going to a ball and wanted at least an 
hour in which to screw her magnificence up to the danc- 
ing pitch. 

The consequence was that Orsino found himself help- 
ing Maria Consuelo into the modest hired conveyance 
which awaited her at the gate. He hoped that she would 
offer him a seat for a short distance, but he was disap- 
pointed. 

“May I come to-morrow?” he asked, as he closed the 
door of the carriage. The night was not cold and the 
window was down. 

“Please tell the coachman to take me to the Via 
Nazionale,” she said quickly. 

“ What number? ” 

“Never mind — he knows — I have forgotten. Good- 
night.” 

She tried to draw up the window, but Orsino held his 
hand on it. 

“May I come to-morrow?” he asked again. 

“No.” 

“Are you angry with me still?” 

“No.” 


DON ORSINO. 


189 


“Then why ” 

“ Let me shut the window. Take your hand away.” 

Her voice was very imperative in the dark. Orsino 
relinquished his hold on the frame, and the pane ran up 
suddenly into its place with a rattling noise. There was 
obviously nothing more to be said. 

“Via Nazionale. The Signora says you know the 
house,” he called to the driver. 

The man looked surprised, shrugged his shoulders 
after the manner of livery stable coachmen and drove 
slowly off in the direction indicated. Orsino stood look- 
ing after the carriage and a few seconds later he saw that 
the man drew rfcin and bent down to the front window 
as though asking for orders. Orsino thought he heard 
Maria Consuelo’s voice, answering the question, but he 
could not distinguish what she said, and the brougham 
drove on at once without taking a new direction. 

He was curious to know whither she was going, and 
the idea of following her suggested itself but he instantly 
dismissed it, partly because it seemed unworthy and 
partly, perhaps, because he was on foot, and no cab was 
passing within hail. 

Orsino was very much puzzled. During the dinner 
she had behaved with her usual cordiality but as soon as 
they were alone she spoke and acted as she had done in 
the afternoon. Orsino turned away and walked across 
the deserted square. He was greatly disturbed, for he 
felt a sense of humiliation and disappointment quite new 
to him. Young as he was, he had been accustomed al- 
ready to a degree of consideration very different from 
that which Maria Consuelo thought fit to bestow, and it 
was certainly the first time in his life that a door — even 
the door of a carriage — had been shut in his face without 
ceremony. What would have been an unpardonable 
insult, coming from a man, was at least an indignity 
when it came from a woman. As Orsino walked along, 
his wrath rose, and he wondered why he had not been 
angry at once. 


190 


DON ORSINO. 


“Very well,” he said to himself. “She says she does 
not want me. I will take her at her word and I will not 
go to see her any more. We shall see what happens. 
She will find out that I am not a child, as she was good 
enough to call me to-day, and that I am not in the habit 
of having windows put up in my face. I have much 
more serious business on hand than making love to 
Madame d’Aranjuez.” 

The more he reflected upon the situation, the more 
angry he grew, and when he reached the door of the club 
he was in a humour to quarrel with everything and 
everybody. Fortunately, at that early hour, the place 
was in the sole possession of half a dozen old gentlemen 
whose conversation diverted his thoughts though it was 
the very reverse of edifying. Between the stories they 
told and the considerable number of cigarettes he smoked 
while listening to them he was almost restored to his 
normal frame of mind by midnight, when four or five of 
his usual companions straggled in and proposed baccarat. 
After his recent successes he could not well refuse to 
play, so he sat down rather reluctantly with the rest. 
Oddly enough he did not lose, though he won but little. 

“Lucky at play, unlucky in love,” laughed one of the 
men carelessly. 

“What do you mean?” asked Orsino, turning sharply 
upon the speaker. 

“Mean? Nothing,” answered the latter in great sur- 
prise. “What is the matter with you, Orsino? Cannot 
one quote a common proverb?” 

“Oh — if you meant nothing, let us go on,” Orsino an- 
swered gloomily. 

As he took up the cards again, he heard a sigh behind 
him and turning round saw that Spicca was standing at 
his shoulder. He was shocked by the melancholy count’s 
face, though he was used to meeting him almost every 
day. The haggard and cadaverous features, the sunken 
and careworn eyes, contrasted almost horribly with the 
freshness and gaiety of Orsino’s companions, and the 


DON ORSINO. 


191 


brilliant light in the room threw the man’s deadly pallor 
into strong relief. 

“Will you play, Count?” asked Orsino, making room 
for him. 

“Thanks — no. I never play nowadays,” answered 
Spicca quietly. 

He turned and left the room. With all his apparent 
weakness his step was not unsteady, though it was slower 
than in the old days. 

“He sighed in that way because we did not quarrel,” 
said the man whose quoted proverb had annoyed Orsino. 

“ I am ready and anxious to quarrel with everybody 
to-night,” answered Orsino. “Let us play baccarat — 
that is much better.” 

Spicca left the club alone and walked slowly home- 
wards to his small lodging in the Via della Croce. A 
few dying embers smouldered in the little fireplace 
which warmed his sitting-room. He stirred them slowly, 
took a stick of wood from the wicker basket, hesitated a 
moment, and then put it back again instead of burning 
it. The night was not cold and wood was very dear. 
He sat down under the light of the old lamp which stood 
upon the mantelpiece, and drew a long breath. But 
presently, putting his hand into the pocket of his over- 
coat in search of his cigarette case, he drew out some- 
thing else which he had almost forgotten, a small 
something wrapped in coarse paper. He undid it and 
looked at the little frame of chiselled brass which Donna 
Tullia had found him buying in the afternoon, turning it 
over and over, absently, as though thinking of some- 
thing else. 

Then he fumbled in his pockets again and found a 
photograph which he had also bought in the course of 
the day — the photograph of Gouache’s latest portrait, 
obtained in a contraband fashion and with some diffi- 
culty from the photographer. 

Without hesitation Spicca took a pocket-knife and 
began to cut the head out, with that extraordinary neat- 


192 


DON ORSINO. 


ness and precision which characterised him when he used 
any sharp instrument. The head just fitted the frame. 
He fastened it in with drops of sealing-wax and carefully 
burned the rest of the picture in the embers. 

The face of Maria Consuelo smiled at him in the lamp- 
light, as he turned it in different ways so as to find the 
best aspect of it. Then he hung it on a nail above the 
mantelpiece just under a pair of crossed foils. 

“ That man Gouache is a very clever fellow, ” he said 
aloud. “ Between them, he and nature have made a good 
likeness.” 

He sat down again and it was a long time before he 
made up his mind to take away the lamp and go to bed. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Del Perice kept his word and arranged matters for 
Orsino with a speed and skill which excited the latter’s 
admiration. The affair was not indeed very complicated 
though it involved a deed of sale, the transfer of a mort- 
gage and a deed of partnership between Orsino Saracin- 
esca and Andrea Contini, architect, under the style 
“ Andrea Contini and Company,” besides a contract 
between this firm of the one party and the bank in which 
Del Ferice was a director, of the other, the partners 
agreeing to continue the building of the half-finished 
house, and the bank binding itself to advance small 
sums up to a certain amount for current expenses of 
material and workmen’s wages. Orsino signed every- 
thing required of him after reading the documents, and 
Andrea Contini followed his example. 

The architect was a tall man with bright brown eyes, 
a dark and somewhat ragged beard, close cropped hair, 
a prominent, bony forehead and large, coarsely shaped, 
thin ears oddly set upon his head. He habitually wore a 


DON ORSINO. 


193 


dark overcoat, of which the collar was generally turned 
up on one side and not on the other. Judging from the 
appearance of his strong shoes he had always been walk- 
ing a long distance over bad roads, and when it had 
rained within the week his trousers were generally 
bespattered with mud to a considerable height above the 
heel. He habitually carried an extinguished cigar be- 
tween his teeth of which he chewed the thin black end 
uneasily. Orsino fancied that he might be about eight 
and twenty years old, and was not altogether displeased 
with his appearance. He was not at all like the majority 
of his kind, who, in Borne at least, usually affect a scru- 
pulous dandyism of attire and an uncommon refinement 
of manner. Whatever Contini’ s faults might prove to 
be, Orsino did not believe that they would turn out to be 
those of idleness or vanity. How far he was right in 
his judgment will appear before long, but he conceived 
his partner to be gifted, frank, enthusiastic and careless 
of outward forms. 

As for the architect himself, he surveyed Orsino with 
a sort of sympathetic curiosity which the latter would 
have thought unpleasantly familiar if he had understood 
it. Contini had never spoken before with any more 
exalted personage than Del Ferice, and he studied the 
young aristocrat as though he were a being from another 
world. He hesitated some time as to the proper mode of 
addressing him and at last decided to call him “ Signor 
Principe.” Orsino seemed quite satisfied with this, and 
the architect was inwardly pleased when the young man 
said “ Signor Contini ” instead of Contini alone. It was 
quite clear that Del Ferice had already acquainted him 
with all the details of the situation, for he seemed to 
understand all the documents at a glance, picking out 
and examining the important clauses with unfailing 
acuteness, and pointing with his finger to the place 
where Orsino was to sign his name. 

At the end of the interview Orsino shook hands with 
Del Ferice and thanked him warmly for his kindness, 

o 


194 


DON ORSINO. 


after which he and his partner went out together. They 
stood side by side upon the pavement for a few seconds, 
each wondering what the other was going to say. 

“ Perhaps we had better go and look at the house, 
Signor Principe / 5 observed Contini, in the midst of an 
ineffectual effort to light the stump of his cigar. 

“I think so, too / 5 answered Orsino, realising that 
since he had acquired the property it would be as well 
to know how it looked. “You see I have trusted my 
adviser entirely in the matter, and I am ashamed to say 
I do not know where the house is . 55 

Andrea Contini looked at him curiously. 

“ This is the first time that you have had anything to 
do with business of this kind, Signor Principe / 5 he ob- 
served. “You have fallen into good hands . 55 

“Yours ? 55 inquired Orsino, a little stiffly. 

“No. I mean that Count Del Perice is a good adviser 
in this matter . 55 

“I hope so . 55 

“I am sure of it / 5 said Contini with conviction. “It 
would be a great surprise to me if we failed to make a 
handsome profit by this contract . 55 

“ There is luck and ill-luck in everything , 55 answered 
Orsino, signalling to a passing cab. 

The two men exchanged few words as they drove up 
to the new quarter in the direction indicated to the driver 
by Contini. The cab entered a sort of broad lane, the 
sketch of a future street, rough with the unrolled metal- 
ling of broken stones, the space set apart for the pave- 
ment being an uneven path of trodden brown earth. 
Here and there tall detached houses rose out of the 
wilderness, mostly covered by scaffoldings and swarm- 
ing with workmen, but hideous where so far finished as 
to be visible in all the isolation of their six-storied 
nakedness. A strong smell of lime, wet earth and damp 
masonry was blown into Orsino 5 s nostrils by the scirocco 
wind. Contini stopped the cab before an unpromising and 
deserted erection of poles, boards and tattered matting. 


DON ORSINO. 


195 


“ This is our house, ” he said, getting out and immedi- 
ately making another attempt to light his cigar. 

“May I offer you a cigarette?” asked Orsino, holding 
out his case. 

Contini touched his hat, bowed a little awkwardly and 
took one of the cigarettes, which he immediately trans- 
ferred to his coat pocket. 

“If you will allow me I will smoke it by and by,” he 
said. “I have not finished my cigar.” 

Orsino stood on the slippery ground beside the stones 
and contemplated his purchase. All at once his heart 
sank and he felt a profound disgust for everything within 
the range of his vision. He was suddenly aware of his 
own total and hopeless ignorance of everything con- 
nected with building, theoretical or practical. The sight 
of the stiff, angular scaffoldings, draped with torn straw 
mattings that flapped fantastically in the south-east 
wind, the apparent absence of anything like a real house 
behind them, the blades of grass sprouting abundantly 
about the foot of each pole and covering the heaps of 
brown pozzolana earth prepared for making mortar, even 
the detail of a broken wooden hod before the boarded 
entrance — all these things contributed at once to increase 
his dismay and to fill him with a bitter sense of inevita- 
ble failure. He found nothing to say, as he stood with 
his hands in his pockets staring at the general desola- 
tion, but he understood for the first time why women 
cry for disappointment. And moreover, this desolation 
was his own peculiar property, by deed of purchase, and 
he could not get rid of it. 

Meanwhile Andrea Contini stood beside him, examin- 
ing the scaffoldings with his bright brown eyes, in no 
way disconcerted by the prospect. 

“ Shall we go in? ” he asked at last. 

“Do unfinished houses always look like this?” in- 
quired Orsino, in a hopeless tone, without noticing his 
companion’s proposition. 

“Hot always,” answered Contini cheerfully. “Itde- 


196 


DON ORSINO. 


pends upon the amount of work that has been done, and 
upon other things. Sometimes the foundations sink and 
the buildings collapse.” 

“Are you sure nothing of the kind has happened 
here?” asked Orsino with increasing anxiety. 

“ I have been several times to look at it since the baker 
died and I have not noticed any cracks yet,” answered 
the architect, whose coolness seemed almost exasperating. 

“I suppose you understand these things, Signor 
Contini? ” 

Contini laughed, and felt in his pockets for a crumpled 
paper box of wax-lights. 

“It is my profession,” he answered. “And then, I 
built this house from the foundations. If you will come 
in, Signor Principe, I will show you how solidly the 
work is done.” 

He took a key from his pocket and thrust it into a hole 
in the boarding, which latter proved to be a rough door 
and opened noisily upon rusty hinges. Orsino followed 
him in silence. To the young man’s inexperienced eye 
the interior of the building was even more depressing 
than the outside. It smelt like a vault, and a dim grey 
light entered the square apertures from the curtained 
scaffoldings without, just sufficient to help one to find a 
way through the heaps of rubbish that covered the un- 
paved floors. Contini explained rapidly and concisely 
the arrangement of the rooms, calling one cave familiarly 
a dining-room and another a “conjugal bedroom,” as he 
expressed it, and expatiating upon the facilities of com- 
munication which he himself had carefully planned. 
Orsino listened in silence and followed his guide patiently 
from place to place, in and out of dark passages and up 
flights of stairs as yet unguarded by any rail, until they 
emerged upon a sort of flat terrace intersected by low 
walls, which was indeed another floor and above which 
another story and a garret were yet to be built to com- 
plete the house. Orsino looked gloomily about him, 
lighted a cigarette and sat down upon a bit of masonry. 


DON ORSINO. 


197 


“To me, it looks very like failure,” lie remarked. 
“But I suppose there is something in it.” 

“It will not look like failure next month,” said Contini 
carelessly* “ Another story is soon built, and then the 
attic, and then, if you like, a Gothic roof and a turret 
at one corner. That always attracts buyers first and 
respectable lodgers afterwards.” 

“ Let us have a turret, by all means,” answered Orsino, 
as though his tailor had proposed to put an extra button 
on the cuff of his coat. “ But how in the world are you 
going to begin? Everything looks to me as though it 
were falling to pieces.” 

“Leave all that to me, Signor Principe. We will 
begin to-morrow. I have a good overseer and there are 
plenty of workmen to be had. We have material for a 
week at least, and paid for, excepting a few cartloads of 
lime. Come again in ten days and you will see some- 
thing worth looking at.” 

“In ten days? And what am I to do in the mean- 
time?” asked Orsino, who fancied that he had found an 
occupation. 

Andrea Contini looked at him in some surprise, not 
understanding in the least what he meant. 

“I mean, am I to have nothing to do with the work?” 
asked Orsino. 

“ Oh — as far as that goes, you will come every day, 
Signor Principe, if it amuses you, though as you are not 
a practical architect, your assistance is not needed until 
questions of taste have to be considered, such as the 
Gothic roof for instance. But there are the accounts to be 
kept, of course, and there is the business with the bank 
from week to week, office work of various kinds. That 
becomes naturally your department, as the practical su- 
perintendence of the building is mine, but you will of 
course leave it to the steward of the Signor Principe di 
Sant* Ilario, who is a man of affairs.” 

“ I will do nothing of the kind ! ” exclaimed Orsino. 
“I will do it myself. I will learn how it is done. I 
want occupation.” 


198 


DON ORSINO. 


“ What an extraordinary wish ! ” Andrea Contini 
opened his eyes in real astonishment. 

“Is it? You work. Why should not I?” 

“ I must, and you need not, Signor Principe, ” observed 
the architect. “ But if you insist, then you had better 
get a clerk to explain the details to you at first.” 

“Do you not understand them? Can you not teach 
me?” asked Orsino, displeased with the idea of employ- 
ing a third person. 

“ Oh yes — I have been a clerk myself. I should be too 
much honoured but — the fact is, my spare time ” 

He hesitated and seemed reluctant to explain. 

“What do you do with your spare time?” asked 
Orsino, suspecting some love affair. 

“The fact is — I play a second violin at one of the 
theatres — and I give lessons on the mandolin, and some- 
times I do copying work for my uncle who is a clerk in 
the Treasury. You see, he is old, and his eyes are not 
as good as they were.” 

Orsino began to think that his partner was a very odd 
person. He could not help smiling at the enumeration 
of his architect’s secondary occupations. 

“You are very fond of music, then?” he asked. 

“ Eh — -yes — as one can be, without talent — a little by 
necessity. To be an architect one must have houses to 
build. You see the baker died unexpectedly. One 
must live somehow.” 

“And could you not — how shall I say? Would you 
not be willing to give me lessons in book-keeping instead 
of teaching some one else to play the mandolin?” 

“You would not care to learn the mandolin yourself, 
Signor Principe? It is a very pretty instrument, espe- 
cially for country parties, as well as for serenading.” 

Orsino laughed. He did not see himself in the charac- 
ter of a mandolinist. 

“I have not the slightest ear for music,” he answered. 
“I would much rather learn something about business.” 

“It is less amusing,” said Andrea Contini regretfully. 


DON ORSINO. 


199 


“But 1 am at your service. I will come to the office 
when work is over and we will do the accounts together. 
Yon will learn in that way very quickly.” 

“Thank you. I suppose we must have an office. It 
is necessary, is it not?” 

“ Indispensable — a room, a garret — anything. A habi- 
tation, a legal domicile, so to say.” 

“ Where do you live, Signor Contini? Would not your 
lodging do? ” 

“ I am afraid not, Signor Principe. At least not for 
the present. I am not very well lodged and the stairs 
are badly lighted.” 

“Why not here, then?” asked Orsino, suddenly grow- 
ing desperately practical, for he felt unaccountably reluc- 
tant to hire an office in the city. 

“We should pay no rent,” said Contini. “It is an 
idea. But the walls are dry downstairs, and we only 
need a pavement, and plastering, and doors and windows, 
and papering and some furniture to make one of the 
rooms quite habitable. It is an idea, undoubtedly. Be- 
sides, it would give the house an air of being inhabited, 
which is valuable.” 

“How long will all that take? A month or two?” 

“ About a week. It will be a little fresh, but if you 
are not rheumatic, Signor Principe, we can try it.” 

“I am not rheumatic,” laughed Orsino, who was 
pleased with the idea of having his office on the spot, 
and apparently in the midst of a wilderness. “And I 
suppose you really do understand architecture, Signor 
Contini, though you do play the fiddle.” 

In this exceedingly sketchy way was the firm of 
Andrea Contini and Company established and lodged, 
being at the time in a very shadowy state, theoretically 
and practically, though it was destined to play a more 
prominent part in affairs than either of the young part- 
ners anticipated. Orsino discovered before long that his 
partner was a man of skill and energy, and his spirits 
rose by degrees as the work began to advance. Contini 


200 


DON ORSINO. 


was restless, untiring and gifted, such a character as 
Orsino had not yet met in his limited experience of the 
world. The man seemed to understand his business to 
the smallest details and could show the workmen how to 
mix mortar in the right proportions, or how to strengthen 
a scaffolding at the weak point much better than the over- 
seer or the master builder. At the books he seemed to be 
infallible, and he possessed, moreover, such a power of 
stating things clearly and neatly that Orsino actually 
learnt from him in a few weeks what he would have 
needed six months to learn anywhere else. As soon as 
the first dread of failure wore off, Orsino discovered that 
he was happier than he had ever been in the course of 
his life before. What he did was not, indeed, of much 
use in the progress of the office work and rather hindered 
than helped Contini, who was obliged to do everything 
slowly and sometimes twice over in order to make his 
pupil understand; but Orsino had a clear and practical 
mind, and did not forget what he had learned once. An 
odd sort of friendship sprang up between the two men, 
who under ordinary circumstances would never have met, 
or known each other by sight. The one had expected to 
find in his partner an overbearing, ignorant patrician; 
the other had supposed that his companion would turn 
out a vulgar, sordid, half-educated builder. Both were 
equally surprised when each discovered the truth about 
the other. 

Though Orsino was reticent by nature, he took no 
especial pains to conceal his goings and comings, but as 
his occupation took him out of the ordinary beat followed 
by his idle friends, it was a long time before any of them 
discovered that he was engaged in practical business. In 
his own home he was not questioned, and he said noth- 
ing. The Saracinesca were considered eccentric, but no 
one interfered with them nor ventured to offer them sug- 
gestions. If they chose to allow their heir absolute 
liberty of action, merely because he had passed his 
twenty-first birthday, it was their own concern, and his 


DON ORSINO. 


201 


ruin would be upon their own heads. No one cared to 
risk a savage retort from the aged prince, or a cutting 
answer from Sant* Ilario for the questionable satisfac- 
tion of telling either that Orsino was going to the bad. 
The only person who really knew what Orsino was about, 
and who could have claimed the right to speak to his 
family of his doings was San Giacinto, and he held his 
peace, having plenty of important affairs of his own to 
occupy him and being blessed with an especial gift for 
leaving other people to themselves. 

Sant* Ilario never spied upon his son, as many of his 
contemporaries would have done in his place. He pre- 
ferred to trust him to his own devices so long as these 
led to no great mischief. He saw that Orsino was less 
restless than formerly, that he was less at the club, and 
that he was stirring earlier in the morning than had been 
his wont, and he was well satisfied. 

It was not to be expected, however, that Orsino should 
take Maria Consuelo literally at her word, and cease from 
visiting her all at once. If not really in love with her, 
he was at least so much interested in her that he sorely 
missed the daily half hour or more which he had been 
used to spend in her society. 

Three several times he went to her hotel at the ac- 
customed hour, and each time he was told by the porter 
that she was at home ; but on each occasion, also, when 
he sent up his card, the hotel servant returned with a 
message from the maid to the effect that Madame 
d’Aranjuez was tired and did not receive. Orsino’s 
pride rebelled equally against making a further attempt 
and against writing a letter requesting an explanation. 
Once only, when he was walking alone she passed him 
in a carriage, and she acknowledged his bow quietly and 
naturally, as though nothing had happened. He fancied 
she was paler than usual, and that there were shadows 
under her eyes which he had not formerly noticed. 
Possibly, he thought, she was really not in good health, 
and the excuses made through her maid were not wholly 


202 


DON OESINO. 


invented. He was conscious that his heart beat a little 
faster as he watched the back of the brougham disappear- 
ing in the distance, but he did not feel an irresistible 
longing to make another and more serious attempt to see 
her. He tried to analyse his own sensations, and it 
seemed to him that he rather dreaded a meeting than 
desired it, and that he felt a certain humiliation for 
which he could not account. In the midst of his analy- 
sis, his cigarette went out and he sighed. He was 
startled by such an expression of feeling, and tried to 
remember whether he had ever sighed before in his life, 
but if he had, he could not recall the circumstances. 
He tried to console himself with the absurd supposition 
that he was sleepy and that the long-drawn breath had 
been only a suppressed yawn. Then he walked on, gaz- 
ing before him into the purple haze that filled the deep 
street just as the sun was setting, and a vague sadness 
and longing touched him which had no place in his cata- 
logue of permissible emotions and which were as far re- 
moved from the cold cynicism which he admired in 
others and affected in himself as they were beyond the 
sphere of his analysis. 

There is an age, not always to be fixed exactly, at 
which the really masculine nature craves the society of 
womankind, in one shape or another, as a necessity of 
existence, and by the society of womankind no one 
means merely the daily and hourly social intercourse 
which consists in exchanging the same set of remarks 
half a dozen times a day with as many beings of gentle 
sex who, to the careless eye of ordinary man, differ from 
each other in dress rather than in face or thought. 
There are eminently manly men, that is to say men fear- 
less, strong, honourable and active, to whom the com- 
mon five o’clock tea presents as much distraction and 
offers as much womanly sympathy as they need; who 
choose their intimate friends among men, rather than 
among women, and who die at an advanced age without 
ever having been more than comfortably in love — and of 


DON ORSINO. 


203 


such is the Kingdom of Heaven. The masculine man 
may be as brave, as strong and as scrupulously just in 
all his dealings, but on the other hand he may be weak, 
cowardly and a cheat, and he is apt to inherit the por- 
tion of sinners, whatever his moral characteristics may 
be, good or bad. 

Orsino was certainly not unmanly, but he was also 
eminently masculine and he began to suffer from the 
loss of Maria Consuelo’s conversation in a way that sur- 
prised himself. His acquaintance with her, to give it a 
mild name, had been the first of the kind which he had 
enjoyed, and it contrasted too strongly with the crude 
experiences of his untried youth not to be highly valued 
by him and deeply regretted. He might pretend to 
laugh at it, and repeat to himself that his Egeria had 
been but a very superficial person, fervent in the reading 
of the daily novel and possibly not even worldly wise; 
he did not miss her any the less for that. A little sym- 
pathy and much patience in listening will go far to make 
a woman of small gifts indispensable even to a man of 
superior talent, especially when he thinks himself misun- 
derstood in his ordinary surroundings. The sympathy 
passes for intelligence and the patience for assent and 
encouragement — a touch of the hand, and there is friend- 
ship, a tear, a sigh, and devotion stands upon the stage, 
bearing in her arms an infant love who learns to walk 
his part at the first suspicion of a kiss. 

Orsino did not imagine that he had exhausted the 
world’s capabilities of happiness. The age of Byronism, 
as it used to be called, is over. Possibly tragedies are 
more real and frequent in our day than when the century 
was young; at all events those which take place seem to 
draw a new element of horror from those undefinable, 
mechanical, prosaic, psuedo-scientific conditions which 
make our lives so different from those of our fathers. 
Everything is terribly sudden nowadays, and alarmingly 
quick. Lovers make love across Europe by telegraph, 
and poetic justice arrives in less than forty-eight hours 


204 


DON OKSINO. 


by the Oriental Express. Divorce is our weapon of 
precision, and every pack of cards at the gaming table 
can distil a poison more destructive than that of the 
Borgia. The unities of time and place are preserved by 
wire and rail in a way which would have delighted the 
hearts of the old Erench tragics. Perhaps men seek 
dramatic situations in their own lives less readily since 
they have found out means of making the concluding act 
more swift, sudden and inevitable. At all events we all 
like tragedy less and comedy more than our fathers did, 
which, I think, shows that we are sadder and possibly 
wiser men than they. 

However this may be, Orsino was no more inclined to 
fancy himself unhappy than any of his familiar com- 
panions, though he was quite willing to believe that he 
understood most of life’s problems, and especially the 
heart of woman. He continued to go into the world, for 
it was new to him and if he did not find exactly the sort 
of sympathy he secretly craved, he found at least a great 
deal of consideration, some flattery and a certain amount 
of amusement. But when he was not actually being 
amused, or really engaged in the work which he had un- 
dertaken with so much enthusiasm, he felt lonely and 
missed Maria Consuelo more than ever. By this time 
she had taken a position in society from which there 
could be no drawing back, and he gave up for ever the 
hope of seeing her in his own circle. She seemed to 
avoid even the grey houses where they might have met 
on neutral ground, and Orsino saw that his only chance 
of finding her in the world lay in going frequently and 
openly to Del Eerice’s house. He had called on Donna 
Tullia after the dinner, of course, but he was not pre- 
pared to do more, and Del Eerice did not seem to expect it. 

Three or four weeks after he had entered into partner- 
ship with Andrea Contini, Orsino found himself alone 
with his mother in the evening. Corona was seated near 
the fire in her favourite boudoir, with a book in her hand, 
and Orsino stood warming himself on one side of the 


DON ORSINO. 


205 


chimney-piece, staring into the flames and occasionally 
glancing at his mother’s calm, dark face. He was debat- 
ing whether he should stay at home or not. 

Corona became conscious that he looked at her from 
time to time and dropped her novel upon her knee. 

“Are you going out, Orsino?” she asked. 

“I hardly know,” he answered. “There is nothing 
particular to do, and it is too late for the theatre.” 

“Then stay with me. Let us talk.” She looked at 
him affectionately and pointed to a low chair near her. 

He drew it up until he could see her face as she spoke, 
and then sat down. 

“What shall we talk about, mother?” he asked, with 
a smile. 

“About yourself, if you like, my dear. That is, if 
you have anything that you know I would like to hear. 
I am not curious, am I, Orsino? I never ask you ques- 
tions about yourself.” 

“No, indeed. You never tease me with questions — 
nor does my father either, for that matter. Would you 
really like to know what I am doing?” 

“If you will tell me.” 

“I am building a house,” said Orsino, looking at her 
to see the effect of the announcement. 

“A house?” repeated Corona in surprise. “Where? 
Does your father know about it?” 

“He said he did not care what I did.” Orsino spoke 
rather bitterly. 

“ That does not sound like him, my dear. Tell me all 
about it. Have you quarrelled with him, or had words 
together?” 

Orsino told his story quickly, concisely and with a 
frankness he would perhaps not have shown to any one 
else in the world, for he did not even conceal his con- 
nection with Del Ferice. Corona listened intently, and 
her deep eyes told him plainly enough that she was in- 
terested. On his part he found an unexpected pleasure in 
telling her the tale, and he wondered why it had never 


206 


DON ORSINO. 


struck him that his mother might sympathise with his 
plans and aspirations. ' When he had finished, he waited 
for her first word almost as anxiously as he would have 
waited for an expression of opinion from Maria Consuelo. 

Corona did not speak at once. She looked into his 
eyes, smiled, patted his lean brown hand lovingly and 
smiled again before she spoke. 

“I like it,” she said at last. “I like you to be inde- 
pendent and determined. You might perhaps have 
chosen a better man than Del Ferice for your adviser. 
He did something once — well, never mind ! It was long 
ago and it did us no harm.” 

“ What did he do, mother? I know my father wounded 
him in a duel before you were married ” 

“ It was not that. I would rather not tell you about it 
— it can do no good, and after all, it has nothing to do 
with the present affair. He would not be so foolish as 
to do you an injury now. I know him very well. He is 
far too clever for that.” 

“He is certainly clever,” said Orsino. He knew that 
it would be quite useless to question his mother further 
after what she had said. “ I am glad that you do not 
think I have made a mistake in going into this business.” 

“No. I do not think you have made a mistake, and I 
do not believe that your father will think so either when 
he knows all about it.” 

“He need not have been so icily discouraging, ” ob- 
served Orsino. 

“ He is a man, my dear, and I am a woman. That is 
the difference. Was San Giacinto more encouraging 
than he? No. They think alike, and San Giacinto has 
an immense experience besides. And yet they are both 
wrong. You may succeed, or you may fail — I hope you 
will succeed — but I do not care much for the result. It 
is the principle I like, the idea, the independence of the 
thing. As I grow old, I think more than I used to do 
when I was young.” 

“How can you talk of growing old! ” exclaimed Orsino 
indignantly. 


DON ORSINO. 


207 


“I think more,” said Corona again, not heeding him. 
“ One of my thoughts is that our old restricted life was 
a mistake for us, and that to keep it up would be a sin 
for you. The world used to stand still in those days, 
and we stood at the head of it, or thought we did. But 
it is moving now and you must move with it or you will 
not only have to give up your place, but you will be left 
behind altogether.” 

“ I had no idea that you were so modern, dearest 
mother,” laughed Orsino. He felt suddenly very happy 
and in the best of humours with himself. 

“ Modern — no, I do not think that either your father 
or I could ever be that. If you had lived our lives you 
would see how impossible it is. The most I can hope to 
do is to understand you and your brothers as you grow up 
to be men. But I hate interference and I hate curiosity 
— the one breeds opposition and the other dishonesty — 
and if the other boys turn out to be as reticent as you, 
Orsino, I shall not always know when they want me. 
You do not realise how much you have been away from 
me since you were a boy, nor how silent you have grown 
when you are at home.” 

“ Am I, mother? I never meant to be.” 

“ I know it, dear, and I do not want you to be always 
confiding in me. It is not a good thing for a young man. 
You are strong and the more you rely upon yourself, the 
stronger you will grow. But when you want sympathy, 
if you ever do, remember that I have my whole heart full 
of it for you. For that, at least, come to me. Ho one 
can give you what I can give you, dear son.” 

Orsino was touched and pressed her hand, kissing it 
more than once. He did not know whether in her last 
words she had meant any allusion to Maria Consuelo, or 
whether, indeed, she had been aware of his intimacy 
with the latter. But he did not ask the question of her 
nor of himself. For the moment he felt that a want in 
his nature had been satisfied, and he wondered again 
why he had never thought of confiding in his mother. 


208 


DON ORSINO. 


They talked of his plans until it wa's late, and from 
that time they were more often together than before, 
each growing daily more proud of the other, though per- 
haps Orsino had better reasons for his pride than Corona 
could have found, for the love of mother for son is more 
comprehensive and not less blind than the passion of 
woman for man. 


CHAPTER XIV, 

The short Roman season was advancing rapidly to its 
premature fall, which is on Ash Wednesday, after which 
it struggles to hold up its head against the overwhelm- 
ing odds of a severely observed Lent, to revive only 
spasmodically after Easter and to die a natural death on 
the first warm day. In that year, too, the fatal day fell 
on the fifteenth of Eebruary, and progressive spirits 
talked of the possibility of fixing the movable Leasts 
and Fasts of the Church in a more convenient part of the 
calendar. Easter might be made to fall in June, for 
instance, and society need not be informed of its in- 
evitable and impending return to dust and ashes until it 
had enjoyed a good three months, or even four, of what 
an eminent American defines as “ brass, sass, lies and sin.” 

Rome was very gay that year, to compensate for the 
shortness of its playtime. Everything was successful, 
and every one was rich. People talked of millions less 
soberly than they had talked of thousands a few years ear- 
lier, and with less respect than they mentioned hundreds 
twelve months later. Like the vanity-struck frog, the 
franc blew itself up to the bursting point, in the hope of 
being taken for the louis, and momentarily succeeded, 
even beyond its own expectations. No one walked, 
though horse-flesh was enormously dear and a good 
coachman’s wages amounted to just twice the salary of 
a government clerk. Men who, six months earlier, had 


DON ORSINO. 


209 


climbed ladders with loads of brick or mortar, were now 
transformed into flourishing sub-contractors, and drove 
about in smart pony-carts, looking the picture of Italian 
prosperity, rejoicing in the most flashy of ties and smok- 
ing the blackest and longest of long black cigars. Dur- 
ing twenty hours out of the twenty-four the gates of the 
city roared with traffic. From all parts of the country 
labourers poured in, bundle in hand and tools on shoulder 
to join in the enormous work and earn their share of the 
pay that was distributed so liberally. A certain man 
who believed in himself stood up and said that Rome 
was becoming one of the greatest of cities, and he 
smacked his lips and said that he had done it, and that 
the Triple Alliance was a goose which would lay many 
golden eggs. The believing bulls roared everything away 
before them, opposition, objections, financial experience, 
and the vanquished bears hibernated in secret places, 
sucking their paws and wondering what, in the name of 
Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, would happen next. Dis- 
tinguished men wrote pamphlets in the most distinguished 
language to prove that wealth was a baby capable of 
being hatched artificially and brought up by hand. 
Every unmarried swain who could find a bride, married 
her forthwith; those who could not followed the advice 
of an illustrious poet and, being over-anxious to take 
wives, took those of others. Everybody was decorated. 
It positively rained decorations and hailed grand crosses 
and enough commanders* ribbons were reeled out to have 
hanged half the population. The periodical attempt to 
revive the defunct carnival in the Corso was made, and 
the yet unburied corpse of ancient gaiety was taken out 
and painted, and gorgeously arrayed, and propped up in 
its seat to be a posthumous terror to its enemies, like 
the dead Cid. Society danced frantically and did all 
those things which it ought not to have done — and added 
a few more, unconsciously imitating Pico della Mirandola. 

Even those comparatively few families who, like the 
Saracinesca, had scornfully declined to dabble in the 


210 


DON ORSINO. 


whirlpool of affairs, did not by any means refuse to 
dance to the music of success which filled the city with 
such enchanting strains. The Princess Befana rose from 
her deathbed with more than usual vivacity and went to 
the length of opening her palace on two evenings in two 
successive weeks, to the intense delight of her gay and 
youthful heirs, who earnestly hoped that the excitement 
might kill her at last, and kill her beyond resurrec- 
tion this time. But they were disappointed. She still 
dies periodically in winter and blooms out again in 
spring with the poppies, affording a perpetual and edify- 
ing illustration of the changes of the year, or, as some 
say, of the doctrine of immortality. On one of those 
memorable occasions she walked through a quadrille with 
the aged Prince Saraoinesca, whereupon Sant’ Ilario 
slipped his arm round Corona’s waist and waltzed with 
her down the whole length of the ballroom and back 
again amidst the applause of his contemporaries and 
their children. If Orsino had had a wife he would have 
followed their example. As it was, he looked rather 
gloomily in the direction of a silent and high-born damsel 
with whom he was condemned to dance the cotillon at a 
later hour. 

So all went gaily on until Ash Wednesday extinguished 
the social flame, suddenly and beyond relighting. And 
still Orsino did not meet Maria Consuelo, and still he 
hesitated to make another attempt to find her at home. 
He began to wonder whether he should ever see her 
again, and as the days went by he almost wished that 
Donna Tullia would send him a card for her lenten even- 
ings, at which Maria Consuelo regularly assisted as he 
learned from the papers. After that first invitation to 
dinner, he had expected that Del Pence’s wife would 
make an attempt to draw him into her circle ; and, in- 
deed, she would probably have done so had she followed 
her own instinct instead of submitting to the higher policy 
dictated by her husband. Orsino waited in vain, not 
knowing whether to be annoyed at the lack of considera- 


DON ORSINO. 


211 


tion bestowed upon him, or to admire the tact which 
assumed that he would never wish to enter the Del Fence 
circle. 

It is presumably clear that Orsino was not in love with 
Madame d’Aranjuez, and he himself appreciated the fact 
with a sense of disappointment. He was amazed at his 
own coldness and at the indifference with which he had 
submitted to what amounted to a most abrupt dismissal. 
He even went so far as to believe that Maria Consuelo 
had repulsed him designedly in the hope of kindling a 
more sincere passion. In that case she had been egre- 
giously mistaken, he thought. He felt a curiosity to see 
her again before she left Borne, but it was nothing more 
than that. A new and absorbing interest had taken 
possession of him which at first left little room in his 
nature for anything else. His days were spent in the 
laborious study of figures and plans, broken only by 
occasional short but amusing conversations with Andrea 
Contini. His evenings were generally passed among a 
set of people who did not know Maria Consuelo except 
by sight and who had long ceased to ask him questions 
about her. Of late, too, he had missed his daily visits 
to her less and less, until he hardly regretted them at 
all, nor so much as thought of the possibility of renewing 
them. He laughed at the idea that his mother should 
have taken the place of a woman whom he had begun to 
love, and yet he was conscious that it was so, though he 
asked himself how long such a condition of things could 
last. Corona was far too wise to discuss his affairs with 
his father. He was too like herself for her to misunder- 
stand him, and if she regarded the whole matter as per- 
fectly harmless and as a legitimate subject for general con- 
versation, she yet understood perfectly that having been 
once rebuffed by Sant’ Ilario, Orsino must wish to be 
fully successful in his attempt before mentioning it 
again to the latter. And she felt so strongly in sym- 
pathy with her son that his work gradually acquired an 
intense interest for her, and she would have sacrifiecd 


212 


DON OESINO. 


much rather than see it fail. She did not on that account 
blame Giovanni for his discouraging view when Orsino 
had consulted him. Giovanni was the passion of her life 
and was not fallible in his impulses, though his judg- 
ment might sometimes be at fault in technical matters 
for which he cared nothing. But her love for her son 
was as great and sincere in its own way, and her pride in 
him was such as to make his success a condition of her 
future happiness. 

One of the greatest novelists of this age begins one of 
his greatest novels with the remark that “all happy 
families resemble each other, but that every unhappy 
family is unhappy in its own especial way.” Generali- 
ties are dangerous in proportion as they are witty or 
striking, or both, and it may be asked whether the great 
Tolstoi has not fallen a victim to his own extraordinary 
power of striking and witty generalisations. Does the 
greatest of all his generalisations, the wide disclaimer of 
his early opinions expressed in the postscript subse- 
quently attached by him to his Kreutzer Sonata , include 
also the words I have quoted, and which were set up, so 
to say, as the theme of his Anna Karjenina ? One may 
almost hope so. I am no critic, but those words some- 
how seem to me to mean that only unhappiness can be 
interesting. It is not pleasant to think of the conse- 
quences to which the acceptance of such a statement 
might lead. 

There are no statistics to tell us whether the majority 
of living men and women are to be considered as happy 
or unhappy. But it does seem true that whereas a single 
circumstance can cause very great and lasting unhappi- 
ness, felicity is always dependent upon more than one 
condition and often upon so many as to make the ex- 
planation of it a highly difficult and complicated matter. 

Corona had assuredly little reason to complain of her 
lot during the past twenty years, but unruffled and per- 
fect as it had seemed to her she began to see that there 
were sources of sorrow and satisfaction before her which 


DON ORSINO. 


213 


had not yet poured their bitter or sweet streams into the 
stately river of her mature life. The new interest which 
Orsino had created for her became more and more absorb- 
ing, and she watched it and tended it, and longed to see 
it grow to greater proportions. The situation was strange 
in one way at least. Orsino was working and his mother 
was helping him to work in the hope of a financial suc- 
cess which neither of them wanted or cared for. Possi- 
bly' the certainty that failure could entail no serious 
consequences made the game a more amusing if a less 
exciting one to play. 

“If I lose,” said Orsino to her, “I can only lose the 
few thousands I invested. If I win, I will give you a 
string of pearls as a keepsake.” 

“ If you lose, dear boy, ” answered Corona, “ it must be 
because you had not enough to begin with. I will give 
you as much as you need, and we will try again.” 

They laughed happily together. Whatever chanced, 
things must turn out well. Orsino worked very hard, 
and Corona was very rich in her own right and could 
afford to help to any extent she thought necessary. She 
could, indeed, have taken the part of the bank and ad- 
vanced him all the money he needed, but it seemed use- 
less to interfere with the existing arrangements. 

In Lent the house had reached an important point in 
its existence. Andrea Contini had completed the Gothic 
roof and the turret which appeared to him in the first 
vision of his dream, but to which the defunct baker had 
made objections on the score of expense. The masons 
were almost all gone and another set of workmen were 
busy with finer tools moulding cornices and laying on 
the snow-white stucco. Within, the joiners and carpen- 
ters kept up a ceaseless hammering. 

One day Andrea Contini walked into the office after a 
tour of inspection, with a whole cigar, unlighted and 
intact, between his teeth. Orsino was well aware from 
this circumstance that something unusually fortunate 
had happened or was about to happen, and he rose from 


214 


DON ORSINO. 


his books, as soon as he recognised the fair-weather 
signal. 

“ We can sell the house whenever we like,” said the 
architect, his bright brown eyes sparkling with satisfac- 
tion. 

“ Already!” exclaimed Orsino who, though equally 
delighted at the prospect of such speedy success, re- 
gretted in his heart the damp walls and the constant stir 
of work which he had learned to like so well. 

“ Already — yes. One needs luck like ours! The 
count has sent a man up in a cab to say that an ac- 
quaintance of his will come and look at the building to- 
day between twelve and one with a view to buying. The 
sooner we look out for some fresh undertaking, the better. 
What do you say, Don Orsino?” 

“It is all your doing, Contini. Without you I should 
still be standing outside and watching the mattings flap- 
ping in the wind, as I did on that never-to-be-forgotten 
first day.” 

“ I conceive that a house cannot be built without an 
architect,” answered Contini, laughing, “and it has al- 
ways been plain to me that there can be no architects 
without houses to build. But as for any especial credit 
to me, I refute the charge indignantly. I except the 
matter of the turret, which is evidently what has at- 
tracted the buyer. I always thought it would. You 
would never have thought of a turret, would you, Don 
Orsino?” 

“Certainly not, nor of many other things,” answered 
Orsino, laughing. “ But I am sorry to leave the place. 
I have grown into liking it.” 

“What can one do? It is the way of the world — ‘lieto 
ricordo d ? un amor che fu, * ” sang Contini in the thin but 
expressive falsetto which seems to be the natural inheri- 
tance of men who play upon stringed instruments. He 
broke off in the middle of a bar and laughed, out of sheer 
delight at his own good fortune. 

In due time the purchaser came, saw and actually 


DON ORSINO. 


215 


bought. He was a problematic personage with a dis- 
quieting nose, who spoke few words but examined every- 
thing with an air of superior comprehension. He looked 
keenly at Orsino but seemed to have no idea who he was 
and put all his questions to Contini. 

After agreeing to the purchase he inquired whether 
Andrea Contini and Company had any other houses of 
the same description building and if so where they were 
situated, adding that he liked the firm’s way of doing 
things. He stipulated for one or two slight improve- 
ments, made an appointment for a meeting with the 
notaries on the following day and went off with a rather 
unceremonious nod to the partners. The name he left 
was that of a well-known capitalist from the south, and 
Contini was inclined to think he had seen him before, 
but was not certain. 

Within a week the business was concluded, the buyer 
took over the mortgage as Orsino and Contini had done 
and paid the difference in cash into the bank, which 
deducted the amounts due on notes of hand before hand- 
ing the remainder to the two young men. The buyer 
also kept back a small part of the purchase money to be 
paid on taking possession, when the house was to be 
entirely finished. Andrea Contini and Company had 
realised a considerable sum of money. 

“The question is, what to do next,” said Orsino 
thoughtfully. 

“We had better look about us for something promis- 
ing, ” said his partner. “ A corner lot in this same quar- 
ter. Corner houses are more interesting to build and 
people like them to live in because they can see two or 
three ways at once. Besides, a corner is always a good 
place for a turret. Let us take a walk — smoking and 
strolling, we shall find something.” 

“A year ago, no doubt,” answered Orsino, who was 
becoming worldly wise. “ A year ago that would have 
been well enough. But listen to me. That house oppo- 
site to ours has been finished some time, yet nobody has 
bought it. What is the reason?” 


216 


DON ORSINO. 


“ It faces north and not south, as ours does, and it has 
not a Gothic roof.” 

“My dear Contini, I do not mean to say that the 
Gothic roof has not helped us very much, but it cannot 
have helped us alone. How about those two houses to- 
gether at the end of the next block. Balconies, traver- 
tine columns, superior doors and windows, spaces for 
hydraulic lifts and all the rest of it. Yet no one buys. 
Dry, too, and almost ready to live in, and all the joinery 
of pitch pine. There is a reason for their ill luck.” 

“What do you think it is? ” asked Contini, opening his 
eyes. 

“ The land on which they are built was not in the hands 
of Del Fence’s bank, and the money that built them was 
not advanced by Del Fence’s bank, and Del Ferice’s 
bank has no interest in selling the houses themselves. 
Therefore they are not sold.” 

* “ But surely there are other banks in Borne, and pri- 
vate individuals ” 

“No, I do not believe that there are,” said Orsino 
with conviction. “My cousin of San Giacinto thinks 
that the selling days are over, and I fancy he is right, 
except about Del Ferice, who is cleverer than any of us. 
We had better not deceive ourselves, Contini. Del 
Ferice sold our house for us, and unless we keep with 
him we shall not sell another so easily. His bank has a 
lot of half-finished houses on its hands secured by mort- 
gages which are worthless until the houses are habitable. 
Del Ferice wants us to finish those houses for him, in 
order to recover their value. If we do it, we shall make 
a profit. If we attempt anything on our own account we 
shall fail. Am I right or not?” 

“What can I say? At all events you are on the safe 
side. But why has not the count given all this work to 
some old established firm of his acquaintance?” 

“ Because he cannot trust any one as he can trust us, 
and he knows it.” 

“ Of course I owe the count a great deal for his kind- 


DON ORSINO. 


217 


ness in introducing me to you. He knew all about me 
before the baker died, and afterwards I waited for him 
outside the Chambers one evening and asked him if he 
could find anything for me to do, but he did not give me 
much encouragement. I saw you speak to him and get 
into his carriage — was it not you? ” 

“Yes — it was I,” answered Orsino, remembering the 
tall man in an overcoat who had disappeared in the dusk 
on the evening when he himself had first sought Del 
Ferice. “Yes, and you see we are both under a sort of 
obligation to him which is another reason for taking his 
advice.” 

“Obligations are humiliating! ” exclaimed Contini im- 
patiently. “We have succeeded in increasing our capi- 
tal — your capital, Don Orsino — let us strike out for 
ourselves.” 

“ I think my reasons are good,” said Orsino quietly. 
“And as for obligations, let us remember that we are 
men of business.” 

It appears from this that the low-born Andrea Contini 
and the high and mighty Don Orsino Saracinesca were 
not very far from exchanging places so far as prejudice 
was concerned. Contini noticed the fact and smiled. 

“After all,” he said, “if you can accept the situation, 
I ought to accept it, too.” 

“It is a matter of business,” said Orsino, returning to 
his argument. “There is no such thing as obligation 
where money is borrowed on good security and a large 
interest is regularly paid.” 

It was clear that Orsino was developing commercial 
instincts. His grandfather would have died of rage on 
the spot if he could have listened to the young fellow’s 
cool utterances. But Contini was not pleased and would 
not abandon his position so easily. 

“ It is very well for you, Don Orsino, ” he said, vainly 
attempting to light his cigar. “You do not need the 
money as I do. You take it from Del Ferice because it 
amuses you to do so, not because you are obliged to 


218 


BON ORSINO. 


accept it. That is the difference. The count knows it 
too, and knows that he is not conferring a favour but 
receiving one. You do him an honour in borrowing his 
money. He lays me under an obligation in lending it.” 

“We must get money somewhere,” answered Orsino 
with indifference. “ If not from Del Ferice, then from 
some other bank. And as for obligations, as you call 
them, he is not the bank himself, and the bank does not 
lend its money in order to amuse me or to humiliate you, 
my friend. But if you insist, I shall say that the con- 
venience is not on one side only. If Del Fence supports 
us it is because we serve his interests. If he has done 
us a good turn, it is a reason why we should do him one, 
and build his houses rather than those of other people. 
You talk about my conferring a favour upon him. Where 
will he find another Andrea Contini and Company to 
make worthless property valuable for him? In that sense 
you and I are earning his gratitude, by the simple proc- 
ess of being scrupulously honest. I do not feel in the 
least humiliated, I assure you.” 

“I cannot help it,” replied Contini, biting his cigar 
savagely. “ I have a heart, and it beats with good blood. 
Do you know that there is blood of Cola di Rienzo in 
my veins?” 

“Ho. You never told me,” answered Orsino, one of 
whose forefathers had been concerned in the murder of 
the tribune, a fact to which he thought it best not to 
refer at the present moment. 

“And the blood of Cola di Rienzo burns under the 
shame of an obligation ! ” cried Contini, with a heat hardly 
warranted by the circumstances. “ It is humiliating, it 
is base, to submit to be the tool of a Del Ferice — we all 
know who and what Del Ferice was, and how he came 
by his title of count, and how he got his fortune — a spy, 
an intriguer! In a good cause? Perhaps. I was not 
born then, nor you either, Signor Principe, and we do 
not know what the world was like, when it was quite 
another world. That is not a reason for serving a spy ! ” 


DON ORSINO. 


219 


“Calm yourself, my friend. We are not in Del 
Fence’s service.” 

“ Better to die than that ! Better to kill him at once 
and go to the galleys for a few years ! Better to play the 
fiddle, or pick rags, or beg in the streets than that, Signor 
Principe. One must respect oneself. You see it yourself. 
One must be a man, and feel as a man. One must feel 
those things here, Signor Principe, here in the heart ! ” 

Contini struck his breast with his clenched fist and bit 
the end of his cigar quite through in his anger. Then 
he suddenly seized his hat and rushed out of the room. 

Orsino was less surprised at the outburst than might 
have been expected, and did not attach any great weight 
to his partner’s dramatic rage. But he lit a cigarette 
and carefully thought over the situation, trying to find out 
whether there were really any ground for Contini’ s first 
remarks. He was perfectly well aware that as Orsino 
Saracinesca he would cut his own throat with enthusiasm 
rather than borrow a louis of Ugo Del Ferice. But as 
Andrea Contini and Company he was another person, 
and so Del Ferice was not Count Del Ferice, nor the 
Onorevole Del Ferice, but simply a director in a bank 
with which he had business. If the interests of Andrea 
Contini and Company were identical with those of the 
bank, there was no reason whatever for interrupting rela- 
tions both amicable and profitable, merely because one 
member of the firm claimed to be descended from Cola 
di Rienzo, a defunct personage in whom Orsino felt no 
interest whatever. Andrea Contini, considering his 
social relations, might be on terms of friendship with 
his hatter, for instance, or might have personal reasons 
for disliking him. In neither case could the buying of 
a hat from that individual be looked upon as an obliga- 
tion conferred or received by either party. This was 
quite clear, and Orsino was satisfied. 

“ Business is business, ” he said to himself, “ and peo- 
ple who introduce personal considerations into a finan- 
cial transaction will get the worst of the bargain.” 


220 


DON ORSINO. 


Andrea Contini was apparently of the same opinion, 
for when he entered the room again at the end of an 
hour his excitement had quite disappeared. 

“ If we take another contract from the count, ” he said, 
“ is there any reason why we should not take a larger 
one, if it is to be had? We could manage three or four 
buildings now that you have become such a good book- 
keeper.” 

“ I am quite of your opinion, ” Orsino answered, decid- 
ing at once to make no reference to what had gone before. 

“ The only question is, whether we have capital enough 
for a margin.” 

“ Leave that to me.” 

Orsino determined to consult his mother, in whose 
judgment he felt a confidence which he could not explain 
but which was not misplaced. The fact was simple 
enough. Corona understood him thoroughly, though her 
comprehension of his business was more than limited, 
and she did nothing in reality but encourage his own 
sober opinion when it happened to be at variance with 
some enthusiastic inclination which momentarily deluded 
him. That quiet pushing of a man’s own better reason 
against his half considered but often headstrong im- 
pulses, is after all one of the best and most loving 
services which a wise woman can render to a man whom 
she loves, be he husband, son or brother. Many women 
have no other secret, and indeed there are few more 
valuable ones, if well used and well kept. But let not 
graceless man discover that it is used upon him. He 
will resent being led by his own reason far more than 
being made the senseless slave of a foolish woman’s 
wildest caprice. To select the best of himself for his 
own use is to trample upon his free will. To send 
him barefoot to Jericho in search of a dried flower is to 
appeal to his heart. Man is a reasoning animal. 

Corona, as was to be expected, was triumphant in 
Orsino’ s first success, and spent as much time in talking 
over the past and the future with him as she could com- 


DON ORSINO. 


221 


mand during his own hours of liberty. He needed no 
urging to continue in the same course, but he enjoyed 
her happiness and delighted in her encouragement. 

“Contini wishes to take a large contract,” he said 
to her, after the interview last described. “ I agree with 
him, in a way. We could certainly manage a larger 
business.” 

“No doubt,” Corona answered thoughtfully, for she 
saw that there was some objection to the scheme in his 
own mind. 

“ I have learned a great deal, ” he continued, “ and we 
have much more capital than we had. Besides, I sup- 
pose you would lend me a few thousands if we needed 
them, would you not, mother?” 

“ Certainly, my dear. You shall not be hampered by 
want of money.” 

“ And then, it is possible that we might make some- 
thing like a fortune in a short time. It would be a great 
satisfaction. But then, too ” He stopped. 

“What then?” asked Corona, smiling. 

“Things may turn out differently. Though I have 
been successful this time, I am much more inclined to 
believe that San Giacinto was right than I was before 
I began. All this movement does not rest on a solid 
basis.” 

A financier of thirty years’ standing could not have 
made the statement more impressively, and Orsino was 
conscious that he was assuming an elderly tone. He 
laughed the next moment. 

“That is a stock phrase, mother,” he continued. 
“But it means something. Everything is not what it 
should be. If the demand were as great as people say 
it is, there would not be half a dozen houses — better 
houses than ours — unsold in our street. That is why I 
am afraid of a big contract. I might lose all my money 
and some of yours.” 

“It would not be of much consequence if you did,” 
answered Corona. “ But of course you will be guided 


222 


DON ORSINO. 


by your own judgment, which is much better than mine. 
One must risk something, of course, but there is no use 
in going into danger.” 

“ Nevertheless, I should enjoy a big venture im- 
mensely.” 

“ There is no reason why you should not try one, when 
the moment comes, my dear. I suppose that a few 
months will decide whether there is to be a crisis or not. 
In the meantime you might take something moderate, 
neither so small as the last, nor so large as you would 
like. You will get more experience, risk less and be 
better prepared for a crash if it comes, or to take ad- 
vantage of anything favourable if business grows safer.” 

Orsino was silent for a moment. 

“You are very wise, mother,” he said. “I will take 
your advice.” 

Corona had indeed acted as wisely as she could. The 
only flaw in her reasoning was her assertion that a few 
months would decide the fate of Eoman affairs. If it 
were possible to predict a crisis even within a few 
months, speculation would be a less precarious business 
than it is. 

Orsino and his mother might have talked longer and 
perhaps to better purpose, but they were interrupted by 
the entrance of a servant, bearing a note. Corona in- 
stinctively put out her hand to receive it. 

“For- Don Orsino,” said the man, stopping before him. 

Orsino took the letter, looked at it and turned it over. 

“ I think it is from Madame d* Aranjuez, ” he remarked, 
without emotion. “May I read it?” 

“There is no answer, Eccellenza,” said the servant, 
whose curiosity was satisfied. 

“Dead it, of course,” said Corona, looking at him. 

She was surprised that Madame d ? Aranjuez should 
write to him, but she was still more astonished to see 
the indifference with which he opened the missive. She 
had imagined that he was more or less in love with Maria 
Consuelo. 


DON ORSINO. 


223 


“I fancy it is the other way,” she thought. “The 
woman wants to marry him. I might have suspected it.” 

Orsino read the note, and tossed it into the fire with- 
out volunteering any information. 

“ I will take your advice, mother, ” he said, continuing 
the former conversation, as though nothing had hap- 
pened. 

But the subject seemed to be exhausted, and before 
long Orsino made an excuse to his mother and went out. 


CHAPTER XV. 

There was nothing in the note burnt by Orsino which 
he might not have shown to his mother, since he had 
already told her the name of the writer. It contained 
the simple statement that Maria Consuelo was about to 
leave Rome, and expressed the hope that she might see 
Orsino before her departure as she had a small request 
to make of him, in the nature of a commission. She 
hoped he would forgive her for putting him to so much 
inconvenience. 

Though he betrayed no emotion in reading the few 
lines, he was in reality annoyed by them, and he wished 
that he might be prevented from obeying the summons. 
Maria Consuelo had virtually dropped the acquaintance, 
and had refused repeatedly and in a marked way to re- 
ceive him. And now, at the last moment, when she 
needed something of him, she chose to recall him by a 
direct invitation. There was nothing to be done but to 
yield, and it was characteristic of Orsino that, having 
submitted to necessity, he did not put off the inevitable 
moment, but went to her at once. 

The days were longer now than they had been during 
the time when he had visited her every day, and the 
lamp was not yet on the table when Orsino entered the 


224 


DON ORSINO. 


small sitting-room. Maria Consuelo was standing by 
the window, looking out into the street, and her right 
hand rested against the pane while her fingers tapped it 
softly but impatiently. She turned quickly as he en- 
tered, but the light was behind her and he could hardly 
see her face. She came towards him and held out her 
hand. 

“ It is very kind of you to have come so soon, ” she 
said, as she took her old accustomed place by the table. 

Nothing was changed, excepting that the two or three 
new books at her elbow were not the same ones which 
had been there two months earlier. In one of them was 
thrust the silver paper-cutter with the jewelled handle, 
which Orsino had never missed. He wondered whether 
there were any reason for the unvarying sameness of 
these details. 

“ Of course I came,” he said. “ And as there was time 
to-day, I came at once.” 

He spoke rather coldly, still resenting her former 
behaviour and expecting that she would immediately say 
wdiat she wanted of him. He would promise to execute 
the commission, whatever it might be, and after ten 
minutes of conversation he would take his leave. There 
was a short pause, during which he looked at her. She 
did not seem well. Her face was pale and her eyes were 
deep with shadows. Even her auburn hair had lost 
something of its gloss. Yet she did not look older than 
before, a fact which proved her to be even younger than 
Orsino had imagined. Saving the look of fatigue and 
suffering in her face, Maria Consuelo had changed less 
than Orsino during the winter, and she realised the fact 
at a glance. A determined purpose, hard work, the con- 
stant exertion of energy and will, and possibly, too, the 
giving up to a great extent of gambling and strong 
drinks, had told in Orsino’ s face and manner as a course 
of training tells upon a lazy athlete. The bold black 
eyes had a more quiet glance, the well-marked features 
had acquired strength and repose, the lean jaw was 


DON ORSINO. 


225 


firmer and seemed more square. Even physically, Orsino 
had improved, though the change was undefinable. 
Young as he was, something of the power of mature 
manhood was already coming over his youth. 

“ You must have thought me very — rude,” said Maria 
Consuelo, breaking the silence and speaking with a slight 
hesitation which Orsino had never noticed before. 

“It is not for me to complain, Madame,” he answered. 
“You had every right ” 

He stopped short, for he was reluctant to admit that 
she had been justified in her behaviour towards him. 

“Thanks,” she said, with an attempt to laugh. “It 
is pleasant to find magnanimous people now and then. 
I do not want you to think that I was capricious. That 
is all.” 

“I certainly do not think that. You were most con- 
sistent. I called three times and always got the same 
answer.” 

He fancied that he heard her sigh, but she tried to 
laugh again. 

“I am not imaginative,” she answered. “I daresay 
you found that out long go. You have much more 
imagination than I.” 

“ It is possible, Madame — but you have not cared to 
develop it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What does it matter? Do you remember what you 
said when I bade you good-night at the window of your 
carriage after Del Ferice’s dinner? You said that you 
were not angry with me. I was foolish enough to 
imagine that you were in earnest. I came again and 
again, but you would not see me. You did not encourage 
my illusion.” 

“ Because I would not receive you? How do you know 
what happened to me? How can you judge of my life? 
By your own? There is a vast difference.” 

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Orsino almost impatiently. 
“ I know what you are going to say. It will be flattering 

Q 


226 


DON OKSINO. 


to me of course. The unattached young man is danger- 
ous to the reputation. The foreign lady is travelling 
alone. There is the foundation of a vaudeville in that! ” 

“ If you must he unjust, at least do not be brutal,” said 
Maria Consuelo in a low voice, and she turned her face 
away from him. 

“ I am evidently placed in the world to offend you, 
Madame. Will you believe that I am sorry for it, 
though I only dimly comprehend my fault? What did 
I say? That you were wise in breaking off my visits, 
because you are alone here, and because I am young, 
unmarried and unfortunately a little conspicuous in my 
native city. Is it brutal to suggest that a young and 
beautiful woman has a right not to be compromised? 
Can we not talk freely for half an hour, as we used to 
talk, and then say good-bye and part good friends until 
you come to Rome again? ” 

“ I wish we could ! ” There was an accent of sincerity 
in the tone which pleased Orsino. 

“Then begin by forgiving me all my sins, and put 
them down to ignorance, want of tact, the inexperience 
of youth or a naturally weak understanding. But do 
not call me brutal on such slight provocation.” 

“We shall never agree for a long time,” answered 
Maria Consuelo thoughtfully. 

“Why not?” 

“ Because, as I told you, there is too great a difference 
between our lives. Do net answer me as you did before, 
for I am right. I began by admitting that I was rude. 
If that is not enough I will say more — I will even ask 
you to forgive me — can I do more ? ” 

She spoke so earnestly that Orsino was surprised and 
almost touched. Her manner now was even less compre- 
hensible than her repeated refusals to see him had been. 

“You have done far too much already,” he said 
gravely. “ It is mine to ask your forgiveness for much 
that I have done and said. I only wish that I under- 
stood you better.” 


DON ORSINO. 


227 


“I am glad you do not,” replied Maria Consuelo, with 
a sigh which this time was not to be mistaken. “ There 
is a sadness which it is better not to understand,” she 
added softly. 

“ Unless one can help to drive it away.” He, too, 
spoke gently, his voice being attracted to the pitch and 
tone of hers. 

“You cannot do that — and if you could, you would 
not.” 

“Who can tell?” 

The charm which he had formerly felt so keenly in 
her presence but which he had of late so completely for- 
gotten, was beginning to return and he submitted to it 
with a sense of satisfaction which he had not anticipated. 
Though the twilight was coming on, his eyes had become 
accustomed to the dimness in the room and he saw every 
change in her pale, expressive face. She leaned back in 
her chair with eyes half closed. 

“I like to think that you would, if you knew how,” 
she said presently. 

“Do you not know that I would?” 

She glanced quickly at him, and then, instead of an- 
swering, rose from her seat and called to her maid 
through one of the doors, telling her to bring the lamp. 
She sat down again, but being conscious that they were 
liable to interruption, neither of the two spoke. Maria 
Consuelo’s fingers played with the silver knife, drawing 
it out of the book in which it lay and pushing it back 
again. At last she took it up and looked closely at the 
jewelled monogram on the handle. 

The maid entered, set the shaded lamp upon the table 
and glanced sharply at Orsino. He could not help notic- 
ing the look. In a moment she was gone, and the door 
closed behind her. Maria Consuelo looked over her 
shoulder to see that it had not been left ajar. 

“ She is a very extraordinary person, that elderly maid 
of mine,” she said. 

“ So I should imagine from her face.” 


228 


DON ORSINO. 


“Yes. She looked at yon as she passed and I saw 
that you noticed it. She is my protector. I never have 
travelled without her and she watches over me — as a cat 
watches a mouse. ” 

The little laugh that accompanied the words was not 
one of satisfaction, and the shade of annoyance did not 
escape Orsino. 

“ I suppose she is one of those people to whose ways 
one submits because one cannot live without them,” he 
observed. 

“Yes. That is it. That is exactly it,” repeated Maria 
Consuelo. “And she is very strongly attached to me,” 
she added after an instant’s hesitation. “ I do not think 
she will ever leave me. In fact we are attached to each 
other.” 

She laughed again as though amused by her own way 
of stating the relation, and drew the paper-cutter through 
her hand two or three times. Orsino’s eyes were oddly 
fascinated by the flash of the jewels. 

“ I would like to know the history of that knife, ” he 
said, almost thoughtlessly. 

Maria Consuelo started and looked at him, paler even 
than before. The question seemed to be a very unex- 
pected one. 

“Why?” she asked quickly. 

“ I always see it on the table or in your hand, ” an- 
swered Orsino. “ It is associated with you — I think of 
it when I think of you. I always fancy that it has a 
story.” 

“You are right. It was given to me by a person who 
loved me.” 

“I see — I was indiscreet.” 

“No — you do not see, my friend. If you did you — 
you would understand many things, and perhaps it is 
better that you should not know them.” 

“Your sadness? Should I understand that, too?” 

“No. Not that.” 

A slight colour rose in her face, and she stretched out 


DON OUSINO. 


229 


her hand to arrange the shade of the lamp, with a gesture 
long familiar to him. 

“We shall end by misunderstanding each other,” she 
continued in a harder tone. “Perhaps it will be my 
fault. I wish you knew much more about me than you 
do, but without the necessity of telling you the story. 
But that is impossible. This paper-cutter — for instance, 
could tell the tale better than I, for it made people see 
things which I did not see.” 

“After it was yours?” 

“Yes. After it was mine.” 

“It pleases you to be very mysterious,” said Orsino 
with a smile. 

“ Oh no ! It does not please me at all, ” she answered, 
turning her face away again. “ And least of all with 
you — my friend.” 

“Why least with me?” 

“Because you are the first to misunderstand. You 
cannot help it. I do not blame you.” 

“ If you would let me be your friend, as you call me, 
it would be better for us both.” 

He spoke as he had assuredly not meant to speak when 
he had entered the room, and with a feeling that sur- 
prised himself far more than his hearer. Maria Con- 
suelo turned sharply upon him. 

“ Have you acted like a friend towards me? ” she asked. 

“ I have tried to, ” he answered, with more presence of 
mind than truth. 

Her tawny eyes suddenly lightened. 

“ That is not true. Be truthful ! How have you acted, 
how have you spoken with me? Are you ashamed to 
answer?” 

Orsino raised his head rather haughtily, and met her 
glance, wondering whether any man had ever been forced 
into such a strange position before. But though her eyes 
were bright, their look was neither cold nor defiant. 

“You know the answer,” he said. “I spoke and acted 
as though I loved you, Madame, but since you dismissed 


230 


DON ORSINO. 


me so very summarily, I do not see why you wish me to 
say so.” 

“ And you, Don Orsino, have you ever been loved — 
loved in earnest — by any woman?” 

“That is a very strange question, Madame.” 

“I am discreet. You may answer it safely.” 

“ I have no doubt of that. ” 

“But you will not? ISTo — that is your right. But it 
would be kind of you — I should be grateful if you would 
tell me — has any woman ever loved you dearly?” 

Orsino laughed, almost in spite of himself. He had 
little false pride. 

“ It is humiliating, Madame. But since you ask the 
question and require a categorical answer, I will make 
my confession. I have never been loved. But you will 
observe, as an extenuating circumstance, that I am 
young. I do not give up all hope.” 

“No — you need not,” said Maria Consuelo in a low 
voice, and again she moved the shade of the lamp. 

Though Orsino was by no means fatuous, he must have 
been blind if he had not seen by this time that Madame 
d’Aranjuez was doing her best to make him speak as he 
had formerly spoken to her, and to force him into a 
declaration of love. He saw it, indeed, and wondered; 
but although he felt her charm upon him, from time to 
time, he resolved that nothing should induce him to relax 
even so far as he had done already more than once dur- 
ing the interview. She had placed him in a foolish posi- 
tion once before, and he would not expose himself to 
being made ridiculous again, in her eyes or his. He 
could not discover what intention she had in trying to 
lead him back to her, but he attributed it to her vanity. 
She regretted, perhaps, having rebuked him so soon, 
or perhaps she had imagined that he would have made 
further and more determined efforts to see her. Possi- 
bly, too, she really wished to ask a service of him, and 
wished to assure herself that she could depend upon him 
by previously extracting an avowal of his devotion. It 


DON ORSINO. 


231 


was clear that one of the two had mistaken the other’s 
character or mood, though it was impossible to say 
which was the one deceived. 

The silence which followed lasted some time, and 
threatened to become awkward. Maria Consuelo could 
not or would not speak and Orsino did not know what 
to say. He thought of inquiring what the commission 
might be with which, according to her note, she had 
wished to entrust him. But an instant’s reflection told 
him that the question would be tactless. If she had 
invented the idea as an excuse for seeing him, to men- 
tion it would be to force her hand, as card-players say, 
and he had no intention of doing that. Even if she 
really had something to ask of him, he had no right to 
change the subject so suddenly. He bethought him of 
a better question. 

“ You wrote me that you were going away,” he said 
quietly. “But you will come back next winter, will 
you not, Madame?” 

“I do not know,” she answered, vaguely. Then she 
started a little, as though understanding his words. 
“ What am I saying ! ” she exclaimed. “ Of course I 
shall come back.” 

“ Have you been drinking from the Trevi fountain by 
moonlight, like those mad English?” he asked, with a 
smile. 

“ It is not necessary. I know that I shall come back 
— if I am alive.” 

“How you say that! You are as strong as I ” 

“ Stronger, perhaps. But then — who knows ! The weak 
ones sometimes last the longest.” 

Orsino thought she was growing very sentimental, 
though as he looked at her he was struck again by the 
look of suffering in her eyes. Whatever weakness she 
felt was visible there, there was nothing in the full, firm 
little hand, in the strong and easy pose of the head, in 
the softly coloured ear half hidden by her hair, that could 
suggest a coming danger to her splendid health. 


232 


DON ORSINO. 


“ Let us take it for granted that yon will come back to 
ns,” said Orsino cheerfully. 

“ Very well, we will take it for granted. What then?” 

The question was so sudden and direct that Orsino 
fancied there ought to be an evident answer to it. 

“ What then?” he repeated, after a moment’s hesita- 
tion. “I suppose you will live in these same rooms 
again, and with your permission, a certain Orsino Sara- 
cinesca will visit you from time to time, and be rude, 
and be sent away into exile for his sins. And Madame 
d’Aranjuez will go a great deal to Madame Del Fence’s 
and to other ultra- White houses, which will prevent the 
said Orsino from meeting her in society. She will also 
be more beautiful than ever, and the daily papers will 
describe a certain number of gowns which she will bring 
with her from Paris, or Vienna, or London, or whatever 
great capital is the chosen official residence of her great 
dressmaker. And the world will not otherwise change 
very materially in the course of eight months.” 

Orsino laughed lightly, not at his own speech, which 
he had constructed rather clumsily under the spur of neces- 
sity, but in the hope that she would laugh, too, and begin 
to talk more carelessly. But Maria Consuelo was evi- 
dently not inclined for anything but the most serious 
view of the world, past, present and future. 

“Yes,” she answered gravely. “I daresay you are 
right. One comes, one shows one’s clothes, and one goes 
away again — and that is all. It would be very much the 
same if one did not come. It is a great mistake to think 
oneself necessary to any one. Only things are necessary 
— food, money and something to talk about.” 

“You might add friends to the list,” said Orsino, who 
was afraid of being called brutal again if he did not make 
some mild remonstrance to such a sweeping assertion. 

“Friends are included under the head of ‘something 
to talk about, ’ ” answered Maria Consuelo. 

“That is an encouraging view.” 

“Like all views one gets by experience.” 


DON ORSINO. 


233 


“ You grow more and more bitter.” 

“Does the world grow sweeter as one grows older?” 

“Neither you nor I have lived long enough to know,” 
answered Orsino. 

“Facts make life long — not years.” 

“ So long as they leave no sign of age, what does it 
matter?” 

“I do not care for that sort of flattery.” 

“Because it is not flattery at all. You know the truth 
too well. I am not ingenious enough to flatter you, 
Madame. Perfection is not flattered when it is called 
perfect.” 

“ It is at all events impossible to exaggerate better than 
you can,” answered Maria Consuelo, laughing at last at 
the overwhelming compliment. “ Where did you learn 
that?” 

“ At your feet, Madame. The contemplation of great 
masterpieces enlarges the intelligence and deepens the 
power of expression.” 

“And I am a masterpiece — of what? Of art? Of 
caprice? Of consistency? ” 

“ Of nature, ” answered Orsino promptly. 

Again Maria Consuelo laughed a little, at the mere 
quickness of the answer. Orsino was delighted with 
himself, for he fancied he was leading her rapidly away 
from the dangerous ground upon which she had been try- 
ing to force him. But her next words showed him that 
he had not yet succeeded. 

“ Who will make me laugh during all these months ! ” 
*he exclaimed with a little sadness. 

Orsino thought she was strangely obstinate, and won- 
dered what she would say next. 

“ Dear me, Madame, ” he said, “ if you are so kind as 
to laugh at my poor wit, you will not have to seek far 
to find some one to amuse you better ! ” 

He knew how to put on an expression of perfect sim- 
plicity when he pleased, and Maria Consuelo looked at 
him, trying to be sure whether he were in earnest or not. 
But his face baffled her. 


234 


DON ORSINO. 


“ You are too modest,” she said. 

“ Do you think it is a defect ? Shall I cultivate a 
little more assurance of manner? ” he asked, very inno- 
cently. 

“ Not to-day. Your first attempt might lead you into 
extremes.” 

“ There is not the slightest fear of that, Madame,” he 
answered with some emphasis. 

She coloured a little and her closed lips smiled in a 
way he had often noticed before. He congratulated 
himself upon these signs of approaching ill-temper, 
which promised an escape from his difficulty. To take 
leave of her suddenly was to abandon the field, and that 
he would not do. She had determined to force him into 
a confession of devotion, and he was equally determined 
not to satisfy her. He had tried to lead her off her track 
with frivolous talk and had failed. He would try and 
irritate her instead, but without incurring the charge of 
rudeness. Why she was making such an attack upon 
him, was beyond his understanding, but he resented it, 
and made up his mind neither to fly nor yield. If he 
had been a hundredth part as cynical as he liked to fancy 
himself, he would have acted very differently. But he 
was young enough to have been wounded by his former 
dismissal, though he hardly knew it, and to seek almost 
instinctively to revenge his wrongs. He did not find it 
easy. He would not have believed that such a woman as 
Maria Consuelo could so far forget her pride as to go 
begging for a declaration of love. 

“I suppose you will take Gouache’s portrait away with 
you,” he observed, changing the subject with a directness 
which he fancied would increase her annoyance. 

“ What makes you think so?” she asked, rather drily. 

“I thought it a natural question.” 

“ I cannot imagine what I should do with it. I shall 
leave it with him.” 

“You will let him send it to the Salon in Paris, of 
course? ” 


DON ORSINO. 


235 


“ If lie likes. You seem interested in the fate of the 
picture.” 

“ A little. I wondered why you did not have it here, 
as it has been finished so long.” 

“ Instead of that hideous mirror, you mean? There 
would be less variety. I should always see myself in 
the same dress.” 

“ No — on the opposite wall. You might compare truth 
with fiction in that way.” 

“ To the advantage of Gouache’s fiction, you would say. 
You were more complimentary a little while ago.” 

“ You imagine more rudeness than even I am capable 
of inventing.” 

“ That is saying much. Why did you change the sub- 
ject just now? ” 

“ Because I saw that you were annoyed at something. 
Besides, we were talking about myself, if I remember 
rightly.” 

“ Have you never heard that a man should always talk 
to a woman about himself or herself?” 

“No. I never heard that. Shall we talk of you, then, 
Madame?” 

“Do you care to talk of me?” asked Maria Consuelo. 

Another direct attack, Orsino thought. 

“I would rather hear you talk of yourself,” he an- 
swered without the least hesitation. 

“ If I were to tell you my thoughts about myself at the 
present moment, they would surprise you very much.” 

“ Agreeably or disagreeably? ” 

“ I do not know. Are you vain? ” 

“ As a peacock ! ” replied Orsino quickly. 

“Ah — then what I am thinking would not interest 
you.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ Because if it is not flattering it would wound you, and 
if it is flattering it vrould disappoint you — by falling 
short of your ideal of yourself.” 

“Yet I confess that I would like to know what you 


236 


DON ORSINO. 


think of me, though I would much rather hear what you 
think of yourself.” 

“ On one condition, I will tell you.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ That you will give me your word to give me your own 
opinion of me afterwards.” 

“The adjectives are ready, Madame, I give you my 
word.” 

“ You give it so easily ! How can I believe you ? ” 

“ It is so easy to give in such a case, when one has 
nothing disagreeable to say.” 

“ Then you think me agreeable ? ” 

“ Eminently ! ” 

“ And charming ? ” 

“ Perfectly ! ” 

“ And beautiful ? ” 

“ How can you doubt it ? ” 

“ And in all other respects exactly like all the women 
in society to whom you repeat the same commonplaces 
every day of your life ? ” 

The feint had been dexterous and the thrust was sud- 
den, straight and unexpected. 

“ Madame ! ” exclaimed Orsino in the deprecatory tone 
of a man taken by surprise. 

“ You see — you have nothing to say ! ” She laughed a 
little bitterly. 

“ You take too much for granted,” he said, recovering 
himself. “You suppose that because I agree with you 
upon one point after another, I agree with you in the 
conclusion. You do not even wait to hear my answer, 
and you tell me that I am checkmated when I have a 
dozen moves from which to choose. Besides, you have 
directly infringed the conditions. You have fired before 
the signal and an arbitration would go against you. You 
have done fifty things contrary to agreement, and you 
accuse me of being dumb in my own defence. There is 
not much justice in that. You promise to tell me a cer- 
tain secret on condition that I will tell you another. 


DON OKSINO. 


237 


Then, without saying a word on your own part you stone 
me with quick questions and cry victory because I pro- 
test. You begin before I have had so much as ” 

“For heaven’s sake stop!” cried Maria Consuelo, 
interrupting a speech which threatened to go on for 
twenty minutes. “ You talk of chess, duelling and stoning 
to death, in one sentence — I am utterly confused ! You 
upset all my ideas ! ” 

“ Considering how you have disturbed mine, it is a fair 
revenge. And since we both admit that we have dis- 
turbed that balance upon which alone depends all possi- 
bility of conversation, I think that I can do nothing more 
graceful — pardon me, nothing less ungraceful — than wish 
you a pleasant journey, which I do with all my heart, 
Madame.” 

Thereupon Orsino rose and took his hat. 

“ Sit down. Do not go yet,” said Maria Consuelo, 
growing a shade paler, and speaking with an evident 
effort. 

“Ah — true!” exclaimed Orsino. “We were forget- 
ting the little commission you spoke of in your note. I 
am entirely at your service.” 

Maria Consuelo looked at him quickly and her lips 
trembled. 

“ Never mind that,” she said unsteadily. “ I will not 
trouble you. But I do not want you to go away as — as 
you were going. I feel as though we had been quarrel- 
ling. Perhaps we have. But let us say we are good 
friends — if we only say it.” 

Orsino was touched and disturbed. Her face was very 
white and her hand trembled visibly as she held it out. 
He took it in his own without hesitation. 

“ If you care for my friendship, you shall have no bet- 
ter friend in the world than I,” he said, simply and nat- 
urally. 

“ Thank you — good-bye. I shall leave to-morrow.” 

The words were almost broken, as though she were 
losing control of her voice. As he closed the door behind 


238 


DON ORSINO. 


him, the sound of a wild and passionate sob came to him 
through the panel. He stood still, listening and hesitat- 
ing. The truth which would have long been clear to an 
older or a vainer man, flashed upon him suddenly. She 
loved him very much, and he no longer cared for her. 
That was the reason why she had behaved so strangely, 
throwing her pride and dignity to the winds in her des- 
perate attempt to get from him a single kind and affec- 
tionate word — from him, who had poured into her ear so 
many words of love but two months earlier, and from 
whom to draw a bare admission of friendship to-day she 
had almost shed tears. 

To go back into the room would be madness ; since he 
did not love her, it would almost be an insult. He bent 
his head and walked slowly down the corridor. He had 
not gone far, when he was confronted by a small dark 
figure that stopped the way. He recognised Maria Con- 
suelo’s elderly maid. 

“ I beg your pardon, Signore Principe,” said the little 
black-eyed woman. “You will allow me to say a few 
words ? I thank you, Eccellenza. It is about my Sig- 
nora, in there, of whom I have charge.” 

“ Of whom you have charge ? ” repeated Orsino, not 
understanding her. 

“ Yes — precisely. Of course, I am only her maid. You 
understand that. But I have charge of her though she 
does not know it. The poor Signora has had terrible 
trouble during the last few years, and at times — you 
understand ? She is a little — -yes — here.” She tapped 
her forehead. “ She is better now. But in my position 
I sometimes think it wiser to warn some friend of hers 
— in strict confidence. It sometimes saves some little 
unnecessary complication, and I was ordered to do so 
by the doctors we last consulted in Paris. You will for- 
give me, Eccellenza, I am sure.” 

Orsino stared at the woman for some seconds in blank 
astonishment. She smiled in a placid, self-confident 
way. 


DON ORSINO. 


239 


“ You mean that Madame d’Aranjuez is — mentally de- 
ranged, and that you are her keeper ? It is a little hard 
to believe, I confess.” 

“ Would you like to see my certificates, Signor Prin- 
cipe ? Or the written directions of the doctors ? I am 
sure you are discreet.” 

“ I have no right to see anything of the kind,” answered 
Orsino coldly. “Of course, if you are acting under 
instructions it is no concern of mine.” 

He would have gone forward, but she suddenly pro- 
duced a small bit of note-paper, neatly folded, and offered 
it to him. 

“I thought you might like to know where we are 
until we return,” she said, continuing to speak in a very 
low voice. “ It is the address.” 

Orsino made an impatient gesture. He was on the 
point of refusing the information which he had not taken 
the trouble to ask of Maria Consuelo herself. But he 
changed his mind and felt in his pocket for something 
to give the woman. It seemed the easiest and simplest 
way of getting rid of her. The only note he had, chanced 
to be one of greater value than necessary. 

“ A thousand thanks, Eccellenza ! ” whispered the maid, 
overcome by what she took for an intentional piece of 
generosity. 

Orsino left the hotel as quickly as he could. 

“ For improbable situations, commend me to the 
nineteenth century and the society in w r hich we live ! ” 
he said to himself as he emerged into the street. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

It was long before Orsino saw Maria Consuelo again, 
but the circumstances of his last meeting with her con- 
stantly recurred to his mind during the following months. 
It is one of the chief characteristics of Rome that it seems 


240 


DON OliSINO. 


to be one of the most central cities in Europe during the 
winter, whereas in the summer months it appears to be 
immensely remote from the rest of the civilised world. 
Erom having been the prey of the inexpressible foreigner 
in his shooting season, it suddenly becomes, and remains 
during about five months, the happy hunting ground of 
the silent flea, the buzzing fly and the insinuating mo- 
squito. The streets are, indeed, still full of people, and 
long lines of carriages may be seen towards sunset in the 
Villa Borghesa and in the narrow Corso. Borne and the 
Bomans are not easily parted as London and London so- 
ciety, for instance. May comes — the queen of the months 
in the south. June follows. Southern blood rejoices in 
the first strong sunshine. July trudges in at the gates, 
sweating under the cloudless sky, heavy, slow of foot, 
oppressed by the breath of the coming dog-star. Still 
the nights are cool. Still, towards sunset, the refreshing 
breeze sweeps up from the sea and fills the streets. Then 
behind closely fastened blinds, the glass windows are 
opened and the weary hand drops the fan at last. Then 
men and women array themselves in the garments of 
civilisation and sally forth, in carriages, on foot, and in 
trams, according to the degrees of social importance which 
provide that in old countries the middle term shall be 
made to suffer for the priceless treasure of a respecta- 
bility which is a little higher than the tram and finan- 
cially not quite equal to the cab. Then, at that magic 
touch of the west wind the house-fly retires to his own 
peculiar Inferno, wherever that may be, the mosquito and 
the gnat pause in their work of darkness and blood to con- 
cert fresh and more bloodthirsty deeds, and even the joy- 
ous and wicked flea tires of the war dance and lays down 
his weary head to snatch a hard-earned nap. July drags 
on, and terrible August treads the burning streets bleach- 
ing the very dust upon the pavement, scourging the broad 
campagna with fiery lashes of heat. Then the white-hot 
sky reddens in the evening when it cools, as the white iron 
does when it is taken from the forge. Then at last, all 


DON ORSINO. 


241 


those who can escape from the condemned city flee for 
their lives to the hills, while those who must face the 
torment of the sun and the poison of the air turn pale in 
their sufferings, feebly curse their fate and then grow list- 
less, weak and irresponsible as over-driven galley slaves, 
indifferent to everything, work, rest, blows, food, sleep 
and the hope of release. The sky darkens suddenly. 
There is a sort of horror in the stifling air. People do 
not talk much, and if they do are apt to quarrel and 
sometimes to kill one another without warning. The 
plash of the fountains has a dull sound like the pouring 
out of molten lead. The horses’ hoofs strike visible 
sparks out of the grey stones in broad daylight. Many 
houses are shut, and one fancies that there must be a dead 
man in each whom no one will bury. A few great drops 
of rain make ink-stains on the pavement at noon, and 
there is an exasperating, half-sulphurous smell abroad. 
Late in the afternoon they fall again. An evil wind comes 
in hot blasts from all quarters at once — then a low roar 
like an earthquake and presently a crash that jars upon 
the over-wrought nerves — great and plashing drops again, 
a sharp short flash — then crash upon crash, deluge upon 
deluge, and the worst is over. Summer has received its 
first mortal wound. But its death is more fatal than its 
life. The noontide heat is fierce and drinks up the moist- 
ure of the rain and the fetid dust with it. The fever-wraith 
rises in the damp, cool night, far out in the campagna, and 
steals up to the walls of the city, and over them and under 
them and into the houses. If there are any yet left in 
Rome who can by any possibility take themselves out of 
it, they are not long in going. Till that moment, there 
has been only suffering to be borne ; now, there is danger 
of something worse. Now, indeed, the city becomes a 
desert inhabited by white-faced ghosts. Now, if it be a 
year of cholera, the dead carts rattle through the streets 
all night on their way to the gate of Saint Lawrence, and 
the workmen count their numbers when they meet at 
dawn. But the bad days are not many, if only there be 


242 


DON ORSINO. 


rain enough, for a little is worse than none. The nights 
lengthen and the September gales sweep away the poi- 
son-mists with kindly strength. Body and soul revive, 
as the ripe grapes appear in their vine-covered baskets at 
the street corners. Bich October is coming, the month 
in which the small citizens of Borne take their wives and 
the children to the near towns, to Marino, to Froscati, to 
Albano and Aricia, to eat late fruits and drink new must, 
with songs and laughter, and small miseries and great 
delights such as are remembered a whole year. The first 
clear breeze out of the north shakes down the dying leaves 
and brightens the blue air. The brown campagna turns 
green again, and the heart of the poor lame cab-horse is 
lifted up. The huge porter of the palace lays aside his 
linen coat and his pipe, and opens wide the great gates ; 
for the masters are coming back, from their castles and 
country places, from the sea and from the mountains, 
from north and south, from the magic shore of Sorrento, 
and from distant French bathing places, some with brides 
or husbands, some with rosy Boman babies making their 
first trumphal entrance into Borne — and some, again, re^ 
turning companionless to the home they had left in com- 
panionship. The great and complicated machinery of 
social life is set in order and repaired for the winter; 
the lost or damaged pieces in the engine are carefully 
replaced with new ones which will do as well or better, 
the joints and bearings are lubricated, the whistle of the 
first invitation is heard, there is some puffing and a little 
creaking at first, and then the big wheels begin to go 
slowly round, solemnly and regularly as ever, while all 
the little wheels run as fast as they can and set fire to 
their axles in the attempt to keep up the speed, and are 
finally jammed and caught up and smashed, as little wheels 
are sure to be when they try to act like big ones. But 
unless something happens to one of the very biggest the 
machine does not stop until the end of the season, when 
it is taken to pieces again for repairs. 

That is the brief history of a Boman year, of which 


DON ORSINO. 


243 


the main points are very much like those of its prede- 
cessor and successor. The framework is the same, but 
the decorations change, slowly, surely and not, perhaps, 
advantageously, as the younger generation crowds into 
the place of the older — as young acquaintances take the 
place of old friends, as faces strange to us hide faces we 
have loved. 

Orsino Saracinesca, in his new character as a con- 
tractor and a man of business, knew that he must either 
spend the greater part of the summer in town, or leave 
his affairs in the hands of Andrea Contini. The latter 
course was repugnant to him, partly because he still felt 
a beginner’s interest in his first success, and partly be- 
cause he had a shrewd suspicion that Contini, if left to 
himself in the hot weather, might be tempted to devote 
more time to music than to architecture. The business, 
too, was now on a much larger scale than before, though 
Orsino had taken his mother’s advice in not at once going 
so far as he might have gone. It needed all his own 
restless energy, all Contini’s practical talents, and per- 
haps more of Del Fence’s influence than either of them 
suspected, to keep it going on the road to success. 

In July Orsino’s people made ready to go up to Sara- 
cinesca. The old prince, to every one’s surprise, declared 
his intention of going to England, and roughly refused to 
be accompanied by any one of the family. He wanted 
to find out some old friends, he said, and desired the sat- 
isfaction of spending a couple of months in peace, which 
was quite impossible at home, owing to Giovanni’s out- 
rageous temper and Orsino’s craze for business. He 
thereupon embraced them all affectionately, indulged in 
a hearty laugh and departed in a special carriage with 
his own servants. 

Giovanni objected to Orsino’s staying in Eome during 
the great heat. Though Orsino had not as yet entered 
into any explanation with his father, but the latter 
understood well enough that the business had turned out 
better than had been expected and began to feel an inter- 


244 


DON ORSINO. 


est in its further success, for his son’s sake. He saw the 
boy developing into a man by a process which he would 
naturally have supposed to be the worst possible one, 
judging from his own point of view. But he could not 
find fault with the result. There was no disputing the 
mental superiority of the Orsino of July over the Orsino 
of the preceding January. Whatever the sensation 
which Giovanni experienced as he contemplated the 
growing change, it was not one of anxiety nor of disap- 
pointment. But he had a Roman’s well-founded preju- 
dice against spending August and September in town. 
His objections gave rise to some discussion, in which 
Corona joined. 

Orsino enlarged upon the necessity of attending in per- 
son to the execution of his contracts. Giovanni sug- 
gested that he should find some trustworthy person to 
take his place. Corona was in favour of a compromise. 
It would be easy, she said, for Orsino to spend two or 
three days of every week in Rome and the remainder in 
the country with his father and mother. They were all 
three quite right according to their own views, and they 
all three knew it. Moreover they were all three very 
obstinate people. The consequence was that Orsino, who 
was in possession, so to say, since the other two were 
trying to make him change his mind, got the best of the 
argument, and won his first pitched battle. Not that 
there was any apparent hostility, or that any of the three 
spoke hotly or loudly. They were none of them like old 
Saracinesca, whose feats of argumentation were vehement, 
eccentric and fiery as his own nature. They talked with 
apparent calm through a long summer’s afternoon, and 
the vanquished retired with a fairly good grace, leaving 
Orsino master of the field. But on that occasion Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca first formed the opinion that his son 
was a match for him, and that it would be wise in future 
to ascertain the chances of success before incurring the 
risk of a humiliating defeat. 

Giovanni and his wife went out together and talked 


DON ORSINO. 


245 


over the matter as their carriage swept round the great 
avenues of Villa Borghesa. 

“ There is no question of the fact that Orsino is grow- 
ing up — is grown up already,” said Sant’ Ilario, glancing 
at Corona’s calm, dark face. 

She smiled with a certain pride, as she heard the 
words. 

“Yes,” she answered, “he is a man. It is a mistake 
to treat him as a boy any longer.” 

“ Do you think it is this sudden interest in business 
that has changed him so ? ” 

“ Of course — what else ? ” 

“Madame d’Aranjuez, for instance,” Giovanni sug- 
gested. 

“ I do not believe she ever had the least influence over 
him. The flirtation seems to have died a natural death. 
I confess, I hoped it might end in that way, and I am 
glad if it has. And I am very glad that Orsino is suc- 
ceeding so well. Do you know, dear ? I am glad, because 
you did not believe it possible that he should.” 

“No, I did not. And now that I begin to understand 
it, he does not like to talk to me about his affairs. I 
suppose that is only natural. Tell me — has he really 
made money ? Or have you been giving him money to 
lose, in order that he may buy experience.” 

“He has succeeded alone,” said Corona proudly. “I 
would give him whatever he needed, but he needs noth- 
ing. He is immensely clever and immensely energetic. 
How could he fail ? ” 

“ You seem to admire our firstborn, my dear,” observed 
Giovanni with a smile. 

“ To tell the truth, I do. I have no doubt that he 
does all sorts of things which he ought not to do, and of 
which I know nothing. You did the same at his age, 
and I shall be quite satisfied if he turns out like you. 
I would not like to have a lady-like son with white hands 
and delicate sensibilities, and hypocritical affectations of 
exaggerated morality. I think I should be capable of 


246 


DON ORSINO. 


trying to make such a boy bad, if it only made him 
manly — though I daresay that would be very wrong.” 

“No doubt,” said Giovanni. “But we shall not be 
placed in any such position by Orsino, my dear. You re- 
member that little affair last year, in England ? It was 
very nearly a scandal. But then — the English are easily 
led into temptation and very easily scandalised after- 
wards. Orsino will not err in the direction of hypocrit- 
ical morality. But that is not the question. I wish to 
know, from you since he does not confide in me, how far 
he is really succeeding.” 

Corona gave her husband a remarkably clear statement 
of Orsino’s affairs, without exaggeration so far as the facts 
were concerned, but not without highly favourable com- 
ment. She did not attempt to conceal her triumph, now 
that success had been in a measure attained, and she did 
not hesitate to tell Giovanni that he ought to have encour- 
aged and supported the boy from the first. 

Giovanni listened with very great interest, and bore 
her affectionate reproaches with equanimity. He felt in 
his heart that he had done right, and he somehow still 
believed that things were not in reality all that they 
seemed to be. There was something in Orsino’s immediate 
success against odds apparently heavy, which disturbed 
his judgment. He had not, it was true, any personal 
experience of the building speculations in the city, nor of 
financial transactions in general, as at present understood, 
and he had recently heard of cases in which individuals 
had succeeded beyond their own wildest expectations. 
There was, perhaps, no reason why Orsino should not do 
as well as other people, or even better, in spite of his 
extreme youth. Andrea Contini was probably a man of 
superior talent, well able to have directed the whole affair 
alone, if other circumstances had been favourable to him, 
and there was on the whole nothing to prove that the two 
young men had received more than their fair share of 
assistance or accommodation from the bank. But Giovanni 
knew well enough that Del Eerice was the most influential 


DON OKSINO. 


247 


personage in the bank in question, and the mere suggestion 
of his name lent to the whole affair a suspicious quality 
which disturbed Orsino’s father. In spite of all reasonable 
reflexions there was an air of unnatural good fortune in 
the case which he did not like, and he had enough experi- 
ence of Del Fence’s tortuous character to distrust his 
intentions. He would have preferred to see his son lose 
money through Ugo rather than that Orsino should owe 
the latter the smallest thanks. The fact that he had not 
spoken with the man for over twenty years did not increase 
the confidence he felt in him. In that time Del Ferice 
had developed into a very important personage, having 
much greater power to do harm than he had possessed in 
former days, and it was not to be supposed that he had 
forgotten old wounds or given up all hope of avenging 
them. Del Ferice was not very subject to that sort of 
forgetfulness. 

When Corona had finished speaking, Giovanni was 
silent for a few moments. 

“ Is it not splendid ? ” Corona asked enthusiastically. 
“ Why do you not say anything ? One would think 
that you were not pleased.” 

“ On the contrary, as far as Orsino is concerned, I am 
delighted. But I do not trust Del Ferice.” 

“ Del Ferice is far too clever a man to ruin Orsino,” 
answered Corona. 

“ Exactly. That is the trouble. That is what makes 
me feel that though Orsino has worked hard and shown 
extraordinary intelligence — and deserves credit for that 
— yet he would not have succeeded in the same way if he 
had dealt with any other bank. Del Ferice has helped 
him. Possibly Orsino knows that, as well as we do, but 
he certainly does not know what part Del Ferice played 
in our lives, Corona. If he did, he would not accept his 
help.” 

In her turn Corona was silent and a look of disappoint- 
ment came into her face. She remembered a certain 
afternoon in the mountains when she had entreated 


248 


DON ORSINO. 


Giovanni to let Del Ferice escape, and Giovanni had 
yielded reluctantly and had given the fugitive a guide to 
take him to the frontier. She wondered whether the 
generous impulse of that day was to bear evil fruit at last. 

“ Orsino knows nothing about it at all,” she said at last. 
“We kept the secret of Del Fence’s escape very care- 
fully — for there were good reasons to be careful in those 
days. Orsino only knows that you once fought a duel 
with the man and wounded him.” 

“ I think it is time that he knew more.” 

“ Of what use can it be to tell him those old stories? ” 
asked Corona. “ And after all, I do not believe that Del 
Ferice has done so much. If you could have followed 
Orsino’s work, day by day and week by week, as I have, 
you would see how much is really due to his energy. Any 
other banker would have done as much as he. Besides, 
it is in Del Fence’s own interest ” 

“That is the trouble,” interrupted Giovanni. “It is 
bad enough that he should help Orsino. It is much worse 
that he should help him in order to make use of him. If, 
as you say, any other bank would do as much, then let 
him go to another bank. If he owes Del Ferice money 
at the present moment, we will pay it for him.” 

“You forget that he has bought the buildings he is 
now finishing, from Del Ferice, on a mortgage.” 

Giovanni laughed a little. 

“How you have learned to talk about mortgages and 
deeds and all sorts of business ! ” he exclaimed. “ But 
what you say is not an objection. We can pay off these 
mortgages, I suppose, and take the risk ourselves.” 

“ Of course we could do that,” Corona answered, thought- 
fully. “But I really think you exaggerate the whole 
affair. For the time being, Del Ferice is not a man, but 
a banker. His personal character and former doings do 
not enter into the matter.” 

“I think they do,” said Giovanni, still unconvinced. 

“ At all events, do not make trouble now, dear,” said 
Corona in earnest tones. “Let the present contract be 


DON OBSINO. 


249 


executed and finished, and then speak to Orsino before he 
makes another. Whatever Del Ferice may have done, 
you can see for yourself that Orsino is developing in a 
way we had not expected, and is becoming a serious, ener- 
getic man. Do not step in now, and check the growth of 
what is good. You will regret it as much as I shall. 
When he has finished these buildings he will have enough 
experience to make a new departure.” 

“ I hate the idea of receiving a favour from Del Ferice, 
or of laying him under an obligation. I think I will go 
to him myself.” 

“ To Del Ferice? ” Corona started and looked round 
at Giovanni as she sat. She had a sudden vision of new 
trouble. 

“ Yes. Why not ? I will go to him and tell him that 
I would rather wind up my son’s business with him, as 
our former relations were not of a nature to make trans- 
actions of mutual profit either fitting or even permissible 
between any of our family and Ugo Del Ferice.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, Giovanni, do not do that.” 

“ And why not ? ” He was surprised at her evident 
distress. 

“ For my sake, then — do not quarrel with Del Ferice — 
it was different then, in the old days. I could not bear it 
now ” she stopped, and her lower lip trembled a little. 

“ Do you love me better than you did then, Corona ? ” 

“ So much better — I cannot tell you.” 

She touched his hand with hers and her dark eyes were 
a little veiled as they met his. Both were silent for a 
moment. 

“ I have no intention of quarrelling with Del Ferice, 
dear,” said Giovanni, gently. 

His face had grown a shade paler as she spoke. The 
power of her hand and voice to move him, had not dimin- 
ished in all the years of peaceful happiness that had passed 
so quickly. 

“ I do not mean any such thing,” he said again. “ But 
I mean this. I will not have it said that Del Ferice has 


250 


DON OKSINO. 


made a fortune for Orsino, nor that Orsino has helped Del 
Fence’s interests. I see no way but to interfere myself. 
I can do it without the suspicion of a quarrel.” 

“It will be a great mistake, Giovanni. Wait till there 
is a new contract.” 

“ I will think of it, before doing anything definite.” 

Corona well knew that she should get no greater con- 
cession than this. The point of honour had been touched 
in Giovanni’s sensibilities and his character was stubborn 
and determined where his old prejudices were concerned. 
She loved him very dearly, and this very obstinacy of his 
pleased her. But she fancied that trouble of some sort 
was imminent. She understood her son’s nature, too, and 
dreaded lest he should be forced into opposing his father. 

It struck her that she might herself act as intermediary. 
She could certainly obtain concessions from Orsino which 
Giovanni could not hope to extract by force or stratagem. 
But the wisdom of her own proposal in the matter seemed 
unassailable. The business now in hand should be allowed 
to run its natural course before anything was done to 
break off the relations between Orsino and Del Ferice. 

In the evening she found an opportunity of speaking 
with Orsino in private. She repeated to him the details 
of her conversation with Giovanni during the drive in the 
afternoon. 

“ My dear mother,” answered Orsino, “ I do not trust 
Del Ferice any more than you and my father trust him. 
You talk of things which he did years ago, but you do 
not tell me what those things were. So far as I under- 
stand, it all happened before you were married. My father 
and he quarrelled about something, and I suppose there 
was a lady concerned in the matter. Unless you were 
the lady in question, and unless what he did was in the 
nature of an insult to you, I cannot see how the matter 
concerns me. They fought and it ended there, as affairs 
of honour do. If it touched you, then tell me so, and I 
will break with Del Ferice to-morrow morning.” 

Corona was silent, for Orsino’s speech was very plain, 


DON ORSINO. 


251 


and if she answered it all, the answer must be the truth. 
There could be no escape from that. And the truth would 
be very hard to tell. At that time she had been still the 
wife of old Astrardente, and Del Fence’s offence had been 
that he had purposely concealed himself in the conserva- 
tory of the Frangipan’s palace in order to overhear what 
Giovanni Saracinesca was about to say to another man’s 
wife. The fact that on that memorable night she had 
bravely resisted a very great temptation did not affect 
the difficulty of the present case in any way. She asked 
herself rather whether Del Ferice’s eavesdropping would 
appear to Orsino to be in the nature of an insult to her, 
to use his own words, and she had no doubt but that it 
would seem so. At the same time she would find hard to 
explain to her son why Del Ferice suspected that there 
was to be anything said to her worth overhearing, seeing 
that she bore at that time the name of another man then 
still living. How could Orsino understand all that had 
gone before? Even now, though she knew that she had 
acted well, she humbly believed that she might have done 
much better. How would her son judge her? She was 
silent, waiting for him to speak again. 

“That would be the only conceivable reason for my 
breaking with Del Ferice,” said Orsino. “We only have 
business relations, and I do not go to his house. I went 
once. I saw no reason for telling you so at the time, and 
I have not been there again. It was at the beginning of 
the whole affair. Outside of the bank, we are the merest 
acquaintances. But I repeat what I said. If he ever did 
anything which makes it dishonourable for me to accept 
even ordinary business services from him, let me know 
it. I have some right to hear the truth.” 

Corona hesitated, and laid the case again before her 
own conscience, and tried to imagine herself in her son’s 
position. It was hard to reach a conclusion. There was 
no doubt but that when she had learned the truth, long 
after the event, she had felt that she had been insulted 
and justly avenged. If she said nothing now, Orsino 


252 


DON ORSINO. 


would suspect something and would assuredly go to his 
father, from whom he would get a view of the case not 
conspicuous for its moderation. And Giovanni would 
undoubtedly tell his son the details of what had followed, 
how Del Ferice had attempted to hinder the marriage 
when it was at last possible, and all the rest of the story. 
At the same time, she felt that so far as her personal 
sensibilities were concerned, she had not the least objec- 
tion to the continuance of a mere business relation between 
Orsino and Del Ferice. She was more forgiving than 
Giovanni. 

“I will tell you this much, my dear boy,” she said, at 
last. “That old quarrel did concern me and no one else. 
Your father feels more strongly about it than I do, because 
he fought for me and not for himself. You trust me, 
Orsino. You know that I would rather see you dead than 
doing anything dishonourable. Very well. Do not ask 
any more questions, and do not go to your father about 
it. Del Ferice has only advanced you money, in a busi- 
ness way, on good security and at a high interest. So far 
as I can judge of the point of honour involved, what hap- 
pened long ago need not prevent your doing what you are 
doing now. Possibly, when you have finished the present 
contract, you may think it wiser to apply to some other 
bank, or to work on your own account with my money.” 

Corona believed that she had found the best way out of 
the difficulty, and Orsino seemed satisfied, for he nodded 
thoughtfully and said nothing. The day had been filled 
with argument and discussion about his determination to 
stay in town, and he was weary of the perpetual question 
and answer. He knew his mother well, and was willing 
to take her advice for the present. She, on her part, told 
Giovanni what she had done, and he consented to consider 
the matter a little longer before interfering. He disliked 
even the idea of a business relation extremely, but he 
feared that there was more behind the appearances of 
commercial fairness than either he or Orsino himself could 
understand. The better Orsino succeeded, the less his 


DON ORSINO. 


253 


father was pleased, and his suspicions were not unfounded. 
He knew from San Giacinto that success was becoming 
uncommon, and he knew that all Orsino’s industry and 
energy could not have sufficed to counterbalance his inex- 
perience. Andrea Contini, too, had been recommended 
by Del Ferice, and was presumably Del Fence’ s man. 

On the following day Giovanni and Corona with the 
three younger boys went up to Saracinesca leaving Orsino 
alone in the great palace, to his own considerable satis- 
faction. He was well pleased with himself and especially 
at having carried his point. At his age, and with his 
constitution, the heat was a matter of supreme indiffer- 
ence to him, and he looked forward with delight to a 
summer of uninterrupted work in the not uncongenial 
society of Andrea Contini. As for the work itself, it was 
beginning to have a sort of fascination for him as he 
understood it better. The love of building, the passion 
for stone and brick and mortar, is inherent in some 
natures, and is capable of growing into a mania little 
short of actual insanity. Orsino began to ask himself 
seriously whether it were too late to study architecture 
as a profession and in the meanwhile he learned more of 
it in practice from Contini than he could have acquired 
in twice the time at any polytechnic school in Europe. 

He liked Contini himself more and more as the days 
went by. Hitherto he had been much inclined to judge 
his own countrymen from his own class. He was begin- 
ning to see that he had understood little or nothing of 
the real Italian nature when uninfluenced by foreign 
blood. The study interested and pleased him. Only one 
unpleasant memory occasionally disturbed his peace of 
mind. When he thought of his last meeting with Maria 
Consuelo he hated himself for the part he had played, 
though he was quite unable to account logically, upon his 
assumed principles, for the severity of his self-condem- 
nation. 


254 


DON OKSINO. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Orsino necessarily led a monotonous life, though his 
occupation was an absorbing one. Very early in the 
morning he was with Contini where the building was 
going on. He then passed the hot hours of the day in the 
office, which, as before, had been established in one of the 
unfinished houses. Towards evening, he went down into 
the city to his home, refreshed himself after his long day’s 
work, and then walked or drove until half past eight, 
when he went to dinner in the garden of a great restau- 
rant in the Corso. Here he met a few acquaintances who, 
like himself, had reasons for staying in town after their 
families had left. He always sat at the same small table, 
at which there was barely room for two persons, for he 
preferred to be alone, and he rarely asked a passing friend 
to sit down with him. 

On a certain hot evening in the beginning of August he 
had just taken his seat, and was trying to make up his 
mind whether he were hungry enough to eat anything or 
whether it would not be less trouble to drink a glass of 
iced coffee and go away, when he was aware of a lank 
shadow cast across the white cloth by the glaring electric 
light. He looked up and saw Spicca standing there, 
apparently uncertain where to sit down for the place was 
fuller than usual. He liked the melancholy old man 
and spoke to him, offering to share his table. 

Spicca hesitated a moment and then accepted the invi- 
tation. He deposited his hat upon a chair beside him 
and leaned back, evidently exhausted either in mind or 
body, if not in both. 

“ I am very much obliged to you, my dear Orsino,” he 
said. “ There is an abominable crowd here, which means 
an unusual number of people to avoid — just as many as 
I know, in fact, excepting yourself.” 

“ I am glad you do not wish to avoid me, too,” observed 
Orsino, by way of saying something. 


DON ORSINO. 


255 


“ You are a less evil — so 1 choose you in preference to 
the greater, ” Spicca answered. But there was a not un- 
kindly look in his sunken eyes as he spoke. 

He tipped the great flask of Chianti that hung in its 
swinging plated cradle in the middle of the table, and 
filled two glasses. 

“ Since all that is good has been abolished, let us drink 
to the least of evils, ” he said, “ in other words, to each 
other.” 

“ To the absence of friends, ” answered Orsino, touch- 
ing the wine with his lips. 

Spicca emptied his glass slowly and then looked at 
him. 

“I like that toast,” he said. “To the absence of 
friends. I daresay you have heard of Adam and Eve in 
the garden of Eden. Do they still teach the dear old tale 
in these modern schools? No. But you have heard it 
— very well. You will remember that if they had not 
allowed the serpent to scrape acquaintance with them, on 
pretence of a friendly interest in their intellectual devel- 
opment, Adam and Eve would still be inventing names 
for the angelic little wild beasts who were too well-be- 
haved to eat them. They would still be in paradise. 
Moreover Orsino Saracinesca and John Nepomucene 
Spicca would not be in daily danger of poisoning in this 
vile cookshop. Summary ejection from Eden was the 
first consequence of friendship, and its results are similar 
to this day. What nauseous mess are we to swallow to- 
night? Have you looked at the card?” 

Orsino laughed a little. He foresaw that Spicca would 
not be dull company on this particular evening. Some- 
thing unusually disagreeable had probably happened to 
him during the day. After long and melancholy hesita- 
tion he ordered something which he believed he could eat, 
and Orsino followed his example. 

“Are all your people out of town?” Spicca asked, 
after a pause. 

“Yes. I am alone.” 


256 


DON ORSINO. 


“And what in the world is the attraction here? Why 
do you stay? I do not wish to be indiscreet, and I was 
never afflicted with curiosity. But cases of mental alien- 
ation grow more common every day, and as an old friend 
of your father’s I cannot overlook symptoms of madness 
in you. A really sane person avoids Borne in August.” 

“ It strikes me that I might say the same to you, ” an- 
swered Orsino. “ I am kept here by business. You have 
not even that excuse.” 

“How do you know?” asked Spicca, sharply. “Busi- 
ness has two main elements — credit and debit. The one 
means the absence of the other. I leave it to your lively 
intelligence to decide which of the two means Borne in 
August, and which means Trouville or St. Moritz.” 

“I had not thought of it in that light.” 

“Ho? I daresay not. I constantly think of it.” 

“There are other places, nearer than St. Moritz,” sug- 
gested Orsino. “Why not go to Sorrento?” 

“ There was such a place once — but my friends have 
found it out. Nevertheless, I might go there. It is 
better to suffer friendship in the spirit than fever in the 
body. But I have a reason for staying here just at present 
— a very good one.” 

“Without indiscretion ?” 

“No, certainly not without considerable indiscretion. 
Take some more wine. When intoxication is bliss it is 
folly to be sober, as the proverb says. I cannot get tipsy, 
but you may, and that will be almost as amusing. The 
main object of drinking wine is that one person should 
make confidences for the other to laugh at — the one en- 
joys it quite as much as the other.” 

“I would rather be the other,” said Orsino with a 
laugh. 

“ In all cases in life it is better to be the other person, ” 
observed Spicca, thoughtfully, though the remark lacked 
precision. 

“You mean the patient and not the agent, I suppose?” 

“ No. I mean the spectator. The spectator is a well 


DON ORSINO. 


257 


fed, indifferent personage who laughs at the play and 
goes home to supper — perdition upon him and his kind! 
He is the abomination of desolation in a front stall, look- 
ing on while better men cut one another’s throats. He 
is a fat man with a pink complexion and small eyes, and 
when he has watched other people’s troubles long enough, 
he retires to his comfortable vault in the family chapel in 
the Campo Yarano, which is decorated with coloured tiles, 
embellished with a modern altar piece and adorned with 
a bust of himself by a good sculptor. Even in death, he 
is still the spectator, grinning through the window of his 
sanctuary at the rows of nameless graves outside. He is 
happy and self-satisfied still — even in marble. It is 
worth living to be such a man.” 

“It is not an exciting life,” remarked Orsino. 

“No. That is the beauty of it. Look at me. I have 
never succeeded in imitating that well-to-do, thoroughly 
worthy villain. I began too late. Take warning, Orsino. 
You are young. Grow fat and look on — then you will 
die happy. All the philosophy of life is there. Farina- 
ceous food, money and a wife. That is the recipe. Since 
you have money you can purchase the gruel and the affec- 
tions. Waste no time in making the investment.” 

“I never heard you advocate marriage before. You 
seem to have changed your mind, of late.” 

“Not in the least. I distinguish between being mar- 
ried and taking a wife, that is all.” 

“Bather a fine distinction.” 

“ The only difference between a prisoner and his gaoler 
is that they are on opposite sides of the same wall. Take 
some more wine. We will drink to the man on the out- 
side.” 

“May you never be inside,” said Orsino. 

Spicca emptied his glass and looked at him, as he set 
it down again. 

“May you never know what it is to have been inside,” 
he said. 

s 


258 


DON ORSINO. 


u You speak as though you had some experience.” 

“ Yes, I have — through an acquaintance of mine.” 

“ That is the most agreeable way of gaining experience.” 

“ Yes,” answered Spicca with a ghastly smile. “Per- 
haps I may tell you the story some day. You may profit 
by it. It ended rather dramatically — so far as it can be 
said to have ended at all. But we will not speak of it 
just now. Here is another dish of poison — do you call 
that thing a fish, Checco? Ah — yes. I perceive that you 
are right. The fact is apparent at a great distance. 
Take it away. We are all mortal, Checco, but we do not 
like to be reminded of it so very forcibly. Give me a 
tomato and some vinegar.” 

“And the birds, Signore? Do you not want them any 
more?” 

“ The birds — yes, I had forgotten. And another flask 
of wine, Checco.” 

“It is not empty yet, Signore,” observed the waiter 
lifting the rush-covered bottle and shaking it a little. 

Spicca silently poured out two glasses and handed him 
the empty flask. He seemed to be very thirsty. Presently 
he got his birds. They proved eatable, for quails are to 
be had all through the summer in Italy, and he began to 
eat in silence. Orsino watched him with some curiosity 
wondering whether the quantity of wine he drank would 
not ultimately produce some effect. As yet, however, 
none was visible; his cadaverous face was as pale and 
quiet as ever, and his sunken eyes had their usual ex- 
pression. 

“ And how does your business go on, Orsino? ” he asked, 
after a long silence. 

Orsino answered him willingly enough and gave him 
some account of his doings. He grew somewhat enthu- 
siastic as he compared his present busy life with his 
former idleness. 

“I like the way you did it, in spite of everybody’s 
advice,” said Spicca, kindly. “A man who can jump 
through the paper ring of Roman prejudice without 


DO N ORSINO. 


259 


stumbling must be nimble and have good legs. So no- 
body gave you a word of encouragement? ” 

“ Only one person, at first. I think you know her — 
Madame d’Aranjuez. I used to see her often just at that 
time.” 

“ Madame d’Aranjuez?” Spicca looked up sharply, 
pausing with his glass in his hand. 

“ You know her? ” 

“ Very well indeed,” answered the old man, before he 
drank. “Tell me, Orsino,” he continued, when he had 
finished the draught, “are you in love with that lady?” 

Orsino was surprised by the directness of the question, 
but he did not show it. 

“Not in the least,” he answered, coolly. 

“Then why did you act as though you were?” asked 
Spicca looking him through and through. 

“ Do you mean to say that you were watching me all 
winter?” inquired Orsino, bending his black eyebrows 
rather angrily. 

“ Circumstances made it inevitable that I should know 
of your visits. There was a time when you saw her 
every day.” 

“ I do not know what the circumstances, as you call 
them, were,” answered Orsino. “But I do not like to be 
watched — even by my father’s old friends.” 

“Keep your temper, Orsino,” said Spicca, quietly. 
“Quarrelling is always ridiculous unless somebody is 
killed, and then it is inconvenient. If you understood 
the nature of my acquaintance with Maria Consuelo — 
with Madame d’Aranjuez, you would see that while not 
meaning to spy upon you in the least, I could not be 
ignorant of your movements.” 

“Your acquaintance must be a very close one,” observed 
Orsino, far from pacified. 

“ So close that it has justified me in doing very odd 
things on her account. You will not accuse me of taking 
a needless and officious interest in the affairs of others, I 
think. My own are quite enough for me. It chances 


260 


DON ORSINO. 


that they are intimately connected with the doings of 
Madame d’Aranjuez, and have been so for a number of 
years. The fact that I do not desire the connexion to be 
known does not make it easier for me to act, when I am 
obliged to act at all. I did not ask an idle question when 
I asked you if you loved her.” 

“ I confess that I do not at all understand the situa- 
tion,” said Orsino. 

“ No. It is not easy to understand, unless I give you 
the key to it. And yet you know more already than any 
one in Lome. I shall be obliged if you will not repeat 
what you know.” 

“ You may trust me,” answered Orsino, who saw from 
Spicca’ s manner that the matter was very serious. 

“ Thank you. I see that you are cured of the idea that 
I have been frivolously spying upon you for my own 
amusement.” 

Orsino was silent. He thought of what had happened 
after he had taken leave of Maria Consuelo. The mys- 
terious maid who called herself Maria Consuelo’ s nurse, 
or keeper, had perhaps spoken the truth. It was possible 
that Spicca was one of the guardians responsible to an 
unknown person for the insane lady’s safety, and that he 
was consequently daily informed by the maid of the 
coming and going of visitors, and of other minor events. 
On the other hand it seemed odd that Maria Consuelo 
should be at liberty to go whithersoever she pleased. 
She could not reasonably be supposed to have a guardian 
in every city of Europe. The more he thought of this 
improbability the less he understood the truth. 

“I suppose I cannot hope that you will tell me more,” 
he said. 

“I do not see why I should,” answered Spicca, drink- 
ing again. “ I asked you an indiscreet question and I 
have given you an explanation which you are kind enough 
to accept. Let us say no more about it. It is better to 
avoid unpleasant subjects.” 

“ I should not call Madame d’Aranjuez an unpleasant 
subject,” observed Orsino. 


DON ORSINO. 


261 


“ Then why did you suddenly cease to visit her? ” asked 
Spicca. 

“For the best of all reasons. Because she repeatedly 
refused to receive me.” He was less inclined to take 
offence now than five minutes earlier. “ I see that your 
information was not complete.” 

“No. I was not aware of that. She must have had a 
good reason for not seeing you.” 

“Possibly.” 

“But you cannot guess what the reason was?” 

“Yes — and no. It depends upon her character, which 
I do not pretend to understand.” 

“ I understand it well enough. I can guess at the fact. 
You made love to her, and one fine day, when she saw 
that you were losing your head, she quietly told her ser- 
vant to say that she was not at home when you called. 
Is that it?” 

“Possibly. You say you know her well — then you 
know whether she would act in that way or not.” 

“I ought to know. I think she would. She is not 
like other women — she has not the same blood.” 

“Who is she?” asked Orsino, with a sudden hope that 
he might learn the truth. 

“ A woman — rather better than the rest — a widow, too, 
the widow of a man who never was her husband — thank 
God!” 

Spicca slowly refilled and emptied his goblet for the 
tenth time. 

“ The rest is a secret, ” he added, when he had finished 
drinking. 

The dark, sunken eyes gazed into Orsino’s with an 
expression so strange and full of a sort of inexplicable 
horror, as to make the young man think that the deep 
potations were beginning to produce an effect upon the 
strong old head. Spicca sat quite still for several minutes 
after he had spoken, and then leaned back in his cane chair 
with a deep sigh. Orsino sighed too, in a sort of uncon- 
scious sympathy, for even allowing for Spicca’ s natural 


262 


DON ORSINO. 


melancholy the secret was evidently an unpleasant one. 
Orsino tried to turn the conversation, not, however, with- 
out a hope of bringing it back unawares to the question 
which interested him. 

“And so you really mean to stay here all summer,” he 
remarked, lighting a cigarette and looking at the people 
seated at a table behind Spicca. 

Spicca did not answer at first, and when he did his 
reply had nothing to do with Orsino’s interrogatory 
observation. 

“We never get rid of the things we have done in our 
lives, ” he said, dreamily. “ When a man sows seed in a 
ploughed field some of the grains are picked out by birds, 
and some never sprout. We are much more perfectly 
organised than the earth. The actions we sow in our 
souls all take root, inevitably and fatally — and they all 
grow to maturity sooner or later.” 

Orsino stared at him for a moment. 

“You are in a philosophising mood this evening,” he 
said. 

“We are only logic’s pawns,” continued Spicca without 
heeding the remark. “ Or, if you like it better, we are 
the Devil’s chess pieces in his match against God. We 
are made to move each in our own way. The one by 
short irregular steps in every direction, the other in 
long straight lines between starting point and goal — the 
one stands still, like the king-piece, and never moves 
unless he is driven to it, the other jumps unevenly like 
the knight. It makes no difference. We take a certain 
number of other pieces, and then we are taken ourselves 
— always by the adversary — and tossed aside out of the 
game. But then, it is easy to carry out the simile, be- 
cause the game itself was founded on the facts of life, by 
the people who invented it.” 

“No doubt,” said Orsino, who was not very much in- 
terested. 

“ Yes. You have only to give the pieces the names of 
men and women you know, and to call the pawns society 


DON ORSINO. 


263 


— you will see how very like real life chess can be. The 
king and queen on each side are a married couple. Of 
course, the object of each queen is to get the other king, 
and all her friends help her — knights, bishops, rooks and 
her set of society pawns. Very like real life, is it not? 
Wait till you are married.” 

Spicca smiled grimly and took more wine. 

“ There at least you have no personal experience, 77 ob- 
jected Orsino. 

But Spicca only smiled again, and vouchsafed no 
answer. 

“ Is Madame d 7 Aranjuez coming back next winter? 77 
asked the young man. 

“ Madame d 7 Aranjuez will probably come back, since she 
is free to consult her own tastes, 77 answered Spicca gravely. 

“ I hope she may be out of danger by that time , 77 said 
Orsino quietly. He had resolved upon a bolder attack 
than he had hitherto made. 

“ What danger is she in now ? 77 asked Spicca quietly. 

“ Surely, you must know . 77 

“I do not understand you. Please speak plainly if 
you are in earnest . 77 

“ Before she went away I called once more. When I 
was coming away her maid met me in the corridor of the 
hotel and told me that Madame d 7 Aranjuez was not quite 
sane, and that she, the maid, was in reality her keeper, 
or nurse — or whatever you please to call her . 77 

Spicca laughed harshly. No one could remember to 
have heard him laugh many times. 

“ Oh — she said that, did she ? 77 He seemed very much 
amused. “ Yes , 77 he added presently, “I think Madame 
d 7 Aranjuez will be quite out of danger before Christmas . 77 

Orsino was more puzzled than ever. He was almost 
sure that Spicca did not look upon the maid 7 s assertion 
as serious, and in that case, if his interest in Maria 
Consuelo was friendly, it was incredible that he should 
seem amused at what was at least a very dangerous piece 
of spite on the part of a trusted servant. 


264 


DON ORSINO. 


“Then is there no truth in that woman’s statement?” 
asked Orsino. 

“ Madame d’ Aranjuez seemed perfectly sane when I last 
saw her,” answered Spicca indifferently. 

“ Then what possible interest had the maid in inventing 
the lie?” 

“Ah — what interest? That is quite another matter, 
as you say. It may not have been her own interest. ” 

“ You think that Madame d’ Aranjuez had instructed 
her? ” 

“ Not necessarily. Some one else may have suggested 
the idea, subject to the lady’s own consent.” 

“And she would have consented? I do not believe 
that.” 

“ My dear Orsino, the world is full of such apparently 
improbable things that it is always rash to disbelieve 
anything on the first hearing. It is really much less 
trouble to accept all that one is told without question.” 

“ Of course, if you tell me positively that she wishes 
to be thought mad ” 

“I never say anything positively, especially about a 
woman — and least of all about the lady in question, who 
is undoubtedly eccentric.” 

Instead of being annoyed, Orsino felt his curiosity 
growing, and made a rash vow to find out the truth at any 
price. It was inconceivable, he thought, that Spicca 
should still have perfect control of his faculties, consid- 
ering the extent of his potations. The second flask was 
growing light, and Orsino himself had not taken more 
than two or three glasses. Now a Chianti flask never 
holds less than two quarts. Moreover Spicca was gen- 
erally a very moderate man. He would assuredly not 
resist the confusing effects of the wine much longer and 
he would probably become confidential. 

But Orsino had mistaken his man. Spicca’s nerves, 
overwrought by some unknown disturbance in his affairs, 
were in that state in which far stronger stimulants than 
Tuscan wine have little or no effect upon the brain. Orsino 


DON ORSINO. 


265 


looked at him and wondered, as many had wondered 
already, what sort of life the man had led, outside and 
beyond the social existence which every one could see. 
Few men had been dreaded like the famous duellist, who 
had played with the best swordsmen in Europe as a cat 
plays with a mouse. And yet he had been respected, as 
well as feared. There had been that sort of fatality in 
his quarrels which had saved him from the imputation 
of having sought them. He had never been a gambler, 
as reputed duellists often are. He had never refused to 
stand second for another man out of personal dislike or 
prejudice. No one had ever asked his help in vain, high 
or low, rich or poor, in a reasonably good cause. His 
acts of kindness came to light accidentally after many 
years. Yet most people fancied that he hated mankind, 
with that sort of generous detestation which never stoops 
to take a mean advantage. In his duels he had always 
shown the utmost consideration for his adversary and the 
utmost indifference to his own interest when conditions 
had to be made. Above all, he had never killed a man 
by accident. That is a crime which society does not for- 
give. But he had not failed, either, when he had meant 
to kill. His speech was often bitter, but never spiteful, 
and, having nothing to fear, he was a very truthful man. 
He was also reticent, however, and no one could boast of 
knowing the story which every one agreed in saying had 
so deeply influenced his life. He had often been absent 
from Rome for long periods, and had been heard of as 
residing in more than one European capital. He had 
always been supposed to be rich, but during the last three 
years it had become clear to his friends that he was poor. 
That is all, roughly speaking, which was known of John 
Nepomucene, Count Spicca, by the society in which he 
had spent more than half his life. 

Orsino, watching the pale and melancholy face, com- 
pared himself with his companion, and wondered whether 
any imaginable series of events could turn him into such 
a man at the same age. Yet he admired Spicca, besides 


266 


DON ORSINO. 


respecting him. Boy-like, he envied the great duellist 
his reputation, his unerring skill, his unfaltering nerve*, 
he even envied him the fear he inspired in those whom 
he did not like. He thought less highly of his sayings 
now, perhaps, than when he had first been old enough 
to understand them. The youthful affectation of cynicism 
had agreed well with the old man’s genuine bitterness, 
but the pride of growing manhood was inclined to put 
away childish things and had not yet suffered so as to 
understand real suffering. Six months had wrought a 
change in Orsino, and so far the change was for the better. 
He had been fortunate in finding success at the first at- 
tempt, and his passing passion for Maria Consuelo had 
left little trace beyond a certain wondering regret that it 
had not been greater, and beyond the recollection of her 
sad face at their parting and of the sobs he had over- 
heard. Though he could only give those tears one mean- 
ing, he realised less and less as the months passed that 
they had been shed for him. 

That Maria Consuelo should often be in his thoughts 
was no proof that he still loved her in the smallest 
degree. There had been enough odd circumstances about 
their acquaintance to rouse any ordinary man’s interest, 
and just at present Spicca’s strange hints and half con- 
fidences had excited an almost unbearable curiosity in 
his hearer. But Spicca did not seem inclined to satisfy 
it any further. 

One or two points, at least, were made clear. Maria 
Consuelo was not insane, as the maid had pretended. 
Her marriage with the deceased Aranjuez had been a 
marriage only in name, if it had even amounted to that. 
Finally, it was evident that she stood in some very near 
relation to Spicca and that neither she nor he wished the 
fact to be known. To all appearance they had carefully 
avoided meeting during the preceding winter, and no one 
in society was aware that they were even acquainted. 
Orsino recalled more than one occasion wnen each had 
been mentioned in the presence of the other. He had a 


DON CXRSINO. 


267 


good memory and lie remembered that a scarcely percep- 
tible change had taken place in the manner or conversation 
of the one who heard the other’s name. It even seemed 
to him that at such moments Maria Consuelo had shown 
an infinitesimal resentment, whereas Spicca had faintly 
exhibited something more like impatience. If this were 
true, it argued that Spicca was more friendly to Maria 
Consuelo than she was to him. Yet on this particular 
evening Spicca had spoken somewhat bitterly of her — 
but then, Spicca was always bitter. His last remark was 
to the effect that she was eccentric. After a long silence, 
during which Orsino hoped that his friend would say 
something more, he took up the point. 

“ I wish I knew what you meant by eccentric,” he said. 
“I had the advantage of seeing Madame d’Aranjuez fre- 
quently, and I did not notice any eccentricity about her.” 

“ Ah — perhaps you are not observant. Or perhaps, as 
you say, we do not mean the same thing.” 

“That is why I would like to hear your definition,” 
observed Orsino. 

“The world is mad on the subject of definitions,” an- 
swered Spicca. “ It is more blessed to define than to be 
defined. It is a pleasant thing to say to one’s enemy, 
‘Sir, you are a scoundrel.’ But when your enemy says 
the same thing to you, you kill him without hesitation 
or regret — which proves, I suppose, that you are not 
pleased with his definition of you. You see definition, 
after all, is a matter of taste. So, as our tastes might 
not agree, I would rather not define anything this even- 
ing. I believe I have finished that flask. Let us take 
our coflee. We can define that beforehand, for we know 
by daily experience how diabolically bad it is.” 

Orsino saw that Spicca meant to lead the conversation 
away in another direction. 

“May I ask you one serious question?” he inquired, 
leaning forward. 

“With a little ingenuity you may even ask me a dozen, 
all equally serious, my dear Orsino. But I cannot promise 


268 


DON OKSINO. 


to answer all or any particular one. I am not omniscient, 
you know.” 

“My question is this. I have no sort of right to ask 
it. I know that. Are you nearly related to Madame 
d’Aranjuez? ” 

Spicca looked curiously at him. 

“Would the information be of any use to you?” he 
asked. “ Should I be doing you a service in telling you 
that we are, or are not related?” 

“Frankly, no,” answered Orsino, meeting the steady 
glance without wavering. 

“ Then I do not see any reason whatever for telling you 
the truth, ” returned Spicca quietly. “ But I will give 
you a piece of general information. If harm comes to 
that lady through any man whomsoever, I will certainly 
kill him, even if I have to be carried upon the ground.” 

There was no mistaking the tone in which the threat 
was uttered. Spicca meant what he said, though not one 
syllable was spoken louder than another. In his mouth 
the words had a terrific force, and told Orsino more of 
the man’s true nature than he had learnt in years. 
Orsino was not easily impressed, and was certainly not 
timid, morally or physically; moreover he was in the 
prime of youth and not less skilful than other men in 
the use of weapons. But he felt at that moment that he 
would infinitely rather attack a regiment of artillery 
single-handed than be called upon to measure swords with 
the cadaverous old invalid who sat on the other side of 
the table. 

“ It is not in my power to do any harm to Madame 
d’Aranjuez,” he answered proudly enough, “and you 
ought to know that if it were, it could not possibly be 
in my intention. Therefore your threat is not intended 
for me.” 

“Very good, Orsino. Your father would have an- 
swered like that, and you mean what you say. If I were 
young I think that you and I should be friends. Fortu- 
nately for you there is a matter of forty years’ difference 


DON ORSINO. 


269 


between our ages, so that you escape the infliction of such 
a nuisance as my friendship. You must find it bad 
enough to have to put up with my company.” 

“Do not talk like that,” answered Orsino. “The 
world is not all vinegar.” 

“Well, well — you will find out what the world is in 
time. And perhaps you will find out many other things 
which you want to know. I must be going, for I have 
letters to write. Checco! My bill.” 

Five minutes later they parted. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Although Orsino’s character was developing quickly 
in the new circumstances which he had created for him- 
self, he was not of an age to be continually on his guard 
against passing impressions ; still less could it be ex- 
pected that he should be hardened against them by 
experience, as many men are by nature. His conversa- 
tion with Spicca, and Spicca’s own behaviour while it 
lasted, produced a decided effect upon the current of his 
thoughts, and he was surprised to find himself thinking 
more often and more seriously of Maria Consuelo than 
during the months which had succeeded her departure 
from Rome. Spicca’s words had acted indirectly upon his 
mind. Much that the old man had said was calculated 
to rouse Orsino’s curiosity, but Orsino was not naturally 
curious and though he felt that it would be very inter- 
esting to know Maria Consuelo’s story, the chief result 
of the Count’s half confidential utterances was to recall 
the lady herself very vividly to his recollection. 

At first his memory merely brought back the endless 
details of his acquaintance with her, which had formed 
the central feature of the first season he had spent with- 
out interruption in Rome and in society. He was sur- 


270 


DON ORSINO. 


prised at the extreme precision of the pictures evoked, 
and took pleasure in calling them up when he was alone 
and unoccupied. The events themselves had not, per- 
haps, been all agreeable, yet there was not one which it 
did not give him some pleasant sensation to remember. 
There was a little sadness in some of them, and more 
than once the sadness was mingled with something of 
humiliation. Yet even this last was bearable. Though 
he did not realise it, he was quite unable to think of 
Maria Consuelo without feeling some passing touch of 
happiness at the thought, for happiness can live with 
sadness when it is the greater of the two. He had no 
desire to analyse these sensations. Indeed the idea did 
not enter his mind that they were worth analysing. His 
intelligence was better employed with his work, and his 
reflexions concerning Maria Consuelo chiefly occupied his 
hours of rest. 

The days passed quickly at first and then, as September 
came they seemed longer, instead of shorter. He was 
beginning to wish that the winter would come, that he 
might again see the woman of whom he was continually 
thinking. More than once he thought of writing to her. 
for he had the address which the maid had given him — 
an address in Paris which said nothing, a mere number 
with the name of a street. He wondered whether she 
would answer him, and when he had reached the self- 
satisfying conviction that she would, he at last wrote a 
letter, such as any person might write to another. He 
told her of the weather, of the dulness of Borne, of his 
hope that she would return early in the season, and of 
his own daily occupations. It was a simply expressed, 
natural and not at all emotional epistle, not at all like 
that of a man in the least degree in love with his corre- 
spondent, but Orsino felt an odd sensation of pleasure in 
writing it and was surprised by a little thrill of happi- 
ness as he posted it with his own hand. 

He did not forget the letter when he had sent it, either, 
as one forgets the uninteresting letters one is obliged to 


DON ORSINO. 


271 


write out of civility. He hoped for an answer. Even if 
she were in Paris, Maria Consuelo might not, and prob- 
ably would not, reply by return of post. And it was 
not probable that she would be in town at the beginning 
of September. Orsino calculated the time necessary to 
forward the letter from Paris to the most distant part of 
frequented Europe, allowed her three days for answering 
and three days more for her letter to reach him. The 
interval elapsed, but nothing came. Then he was irri- 
tated, and at last he became anxious. Either something 
had happened to Maria Consuelo, or he had somehow 
unconsciously offended her by what he had written. He 
had no copy of the letter and could not recall a single 
phrase which could have displeased her, but he feared 
lest something might have crept into it which she might 
misinterpret. But this idea was too absurd to be tenable 
for long, and the conviction grew upon him that she must 
be ill or in some great trouble. He was amazed at his 
own anxiety. 

Three weeks had gone by since he had written, and yet 
no word of reply had reached him. Then he sought out 
Spicca and asked him boldly whether anything had hap- 
pened to Maria Consuelo, explaining that he had written 
to her and had got no answer. Spicca looked at him 
curiously for a moment. 

“ Nothing has happened to her, as far as I am aware,” 
he said, almost immediately. “ I saw her this morning. ” 

“This morning?” Orsino was surprised almost out of 
words. 

“Yes. She is here, looking for an apartment in which 
to spend the winter.” 

“Where is she?” 

Spicca named the hotel, adding that Orsino would 
probably find her at home during the hot hours of the 
afternoon. 

“Has she been here long?” asked the young man. 

“Three days.” 

“ I will go and see her at once. I may be useful to 
her in finding an apartment.” 


272 


DON ORSINO. 


“That would be very kind of you,” observed Spicca, 
glancing at him rather thoughtfully. 

On the following afternoon, Orsino presented himself 
at the hotel and asked for Madame d’Aranjuez. She 
received him in a room not very different from the one 
of which she had had made her sitting-room during the 
winter. As always, one or two new books and the myste- 
rious silver paper cutter were the only objects of her own 
which w^ere visible. Orsino hardly noticed the fact, 
however, for she was already in the room when he en- 
tered, and his eyes met hers at once. 

He fancied that she looked less strong than formerly, 
but the heat was great and might easily account for her 
pallor. Her eyes were deeper, and their tawny colour 
seemed darker. Her hand was cold. 

She smiled faintly as she met Orsino, but said nothing 
and sat down at a distance from the windows. 

“ I only heard last night that you were in Rome, ” he 
said. 

“ And you came at once to see me. Thanks. How did 
you find it out?” 

“ Spicca told me. I had asked him for news of you.” 

“Why him?” inquired Maria Consuelo with some 
curiosity. 

“Because I fancied he might know,” answered Orsino 
passing lightly over the question. He did not wish even 
Maria Consuelo to guess that Spicca had spoken of her 
to him. “ The reason why I was anxious about you was 
that I had written you a letter. I wrote some weeks ago 
to your address in Paris and got no answer.” 

“You wrote?” Maria Consuelo seemed surprised. “I 
have not been in Paris. Who gave you the address? 
What was it? ” 

Orsino named the street and the number. 

“ I once lived there a short time, two years ago. Who 
gave you the address? Not Count Spicca?” 

“No.” 

Orsino hesitated to say more. He did not like to 


DON ORSINO. 


273 


admit that he had received the address from Maria Con- 
suelo ’s maid, and it might seem incredible that the woman 
should have given the information unasked. At the same 
time the fact that the address was to all intents and pur- 
poses a false one tallied with the maid’s spontaneous 
statement in regard to her mistress’s mental alienation. 

“ Why will you not tell me?” asked Maria Consuelo. 

“ The answer involves a question which does not con- 
cern me. The address was evidently intended to deceive 
me. The person who gave it attempted to deceive me 
about a far graver matter, too. Let us say no more about 
it. Of course you never got the letter? ” 

“Of course not.” 

A short silence followed which Orsino felt to be rather 
awkward. Maria Consuelo looked at him suddenly. 

“Did my maid tell you?” she asked. 

“Yes — since you ask me. She met me in the corridor 
after my last visit and thrust the address upon me.” 

“I thought so,” said Maria Consuelo. 

“You have suspected her before?” 

“What was the other deception?” 

“ That is a more serious matter. The woman is your 
trusted servant. At least you must have trusted her 
when you took her ” 

“ That does not follow. What did she try to make you 
believe?” 

“ It is hard to tell you. For all I know, she may have 
been instructed — you may have instructed her yourself. 
One stumbles upon odd things in life, sometimes.” 

“You called yourself my friend once, Don Orsino.” 

“If you will let me, I will call myself so still.” 

“ Then, in the name of friendship, tell me what the 
woman said ! ” Maria Consuelo spoke with sudden energy, 
touching his arm quickly with an unconscious gesture. 

“ Will you believe me? ” 

“Are you accustomed to being doubted, that you ask? ” 

“Ho. But this thing is very strange.” 

“Do not keep me waiting — it hurts me! ” 

T 


274 


DON ORSINO. 


“ The woman stopped me as I was going away. I had 
never spoken to her. She knew my name. She told me 
that you were — how shall I say? — mentally deranged.” 

Maria Consuelo started and turned very pale. 

“ She told you that I was mad? ” Her voice sank to a 
whisper. 

“That is what she said.” 

Orsino watched her narrowly. She evidently believed 
him. Then she sank back in her chair with a stifled cry 
of horror, covering her eyes with her hands. 

“ And you might have believed it ! ” she exclaimed. 
“You might really have believed it — you! ” 

The cry came from her heart and would have shown 
Orsino what weight she still attached to his opinion had 
he not himself been too suddenly and deeply interested 
in the principal question to pay attention to details. 

“She made the statement very clearly,” he said. 
“What could have been her object in the lie? 

“What object? Ah — if I knew that ” 

Maria Consuelo rose and paced the room, her head bent 
and her hands nervously clasping and unclasping. Orsino 
stood by the empty fireplace, watching her. 

“You will send the woman away of course?” he said, 
in a questioning tone. 

But she shook her head and her anxiety seemed to 
increase. 

“ Is it possible that you will submit to such a thing 
from a servant?” he asked in astonishment. 

“ I have submitted to much, ” she answered in a low 
voice. 

“ The inevitable, of course. But to keep a maid whom 
you can turn away at any moment ” 

“Yes — but can I?” She stopped and looked at him. 
“Oh, if I only could — if you knew how I hate the 
woman ” 

“But then -” 

“Yes?” 

“ Do you mean to tell me that you are in some way in 
her power, so that you are bound to keep her always?” 


DON ORSINO. 


275 


Maria Consuelo hesitated a moment. 

“Are you in her power? ” asked Orsino a second time. 
He did not like the idea and his black brows bent them- 
selves rather angrily. 

“No — not directly. She is imposed upon me.” 

“By circumstances?” 

“No, again. By a person who has the power to impose 
much upon me — but this ! Oh this is almost too much ! 
To be called mad ! ” 

“Then do not submit to it.” 

Orsino spoke decisively, with a kind of authority which 
surprised himself. He was amazed and righteously angry 
at the situation so suddenly revealed to him, undefined 
as it was. He saw that he was touching a great trouble 
and his natural energy bid him lay violent hands on it 
and root it out if possible. 

For some minutes Maria Consuelo did not speak, but 
continued to pace the room, evidently in great anxiety. 
Then she stopped before him. 

“It is easy for you to say, ‘do not submit,’ when you 
do not understand,” she said. “If you knew what my 
life is, you would look at this in another way. I must 
submit — I cannot do otherwise.” 

“ If you would tell me something more, I might help 
you,” answered Orsino. 

“You?” She paused. “I believe you would, if you 
could,” she added, thoughtfully. 

“You know that I would. Perhaps I can, as it is, in 
ignorance, if you will direct me.” 

A sudden light gleamed in Maria Consuelo’ s eyes and 
then died away as quickly as it had come. 

“After all, what could you do?” she asked with a 
change of tone, as though she were somehow disap- 
pointed. “ What could you do that others would not do 
as well, if they could, and with a better right? ” 

“Unless you will tell me, how can I know?” 

“Yes — if I could tell you.” 

She went and sat down in her former seat and Orsino 


276 


DON ORSINO. 


took a chair beside her. He had expected to renew the 
acquaintance in a very different way, and that he should 
spend half an hour with Maria Consuelo in talking about 
apartments, about the heat and about the places she had 
visited. Instead, circumstances had made the conversa- 
tion an intimate one full of an absorbing interest to 
both. Orsino found that he had forgotten much which 
pleased him strangely now that it was again brought 
before him. He had forgotten most of all, it seemed, 
that an unexplained sympathy attracted him to her, and 
her to him. He wondered at the strength of it, and 
found it hard to understand that last meeting with her 
in the spring. 

“ Is there any way of helping you, without knowing 
your secret?” he asked in a low voice. 

“No. But I thank you for the wish.” 

“Are you sure there is no way? Quite sure?” 

“Quite sure.” 

“May I say something that strikes me?” 

“Say anything you choose.” 

“There is a plot against you. You seem to know it. 
Have you never thought of plotting on your side?” 

“I have no one to help me.” 

“You have me, if you will take my help. And you 
have Spicca. You might do better, but you might do 
worse. Between us we might accomplish something.” 

Maria Consuelo had started at Spicca’s name. She 
seemed very nervous that day. 

“Do you know what you are saying?” she asked after 
a moment’s thought. 

“Nothing that should offend you, at least.” 

“No. But you are proposing that I should ally myself 
with the man of all others whom I have reason to hate.” 

“You hate Spicca?” Orsino was passing from one 
surprise to another. 

“Whether I hate him or not, is another matter. I 
ought to.” 

“At all events he does not hate you.” 


DON OKSINO. 


277 


“ I know he does not. That makes it no easier for me. 
I could not accept his help.” 

“ All this is so mysterious that I do not know what to 
say,” said Orsino, thoughtfully. “-The fact remains, and 
it is bad enough. You need help urgently. You are in 
the power of a servant who tells your friends that you 
are insane and thrusts false addresses upon them, for 
purposes which I cannot explain.” 

“Nor I either, though I may guess.” 

“It is worse and worse. You cannot even be sure of 
the motives of this woman, though you know the person 
or persons by whom she is forced upon you. You cannot 
get rid of her yourself and you will not let any one else 
help you.” 

“Not Count Spicca.” 

“ And yet I am sure that he would do much for you. 
Can you not even tell me why you hate him, or ought to 
hate him?” 

Maria Consuelo hesitated and looked into Orsino’s eyes 
for a moment. 

“Can I trust you?” she asked. 

“Implicitly.” 

“He killed my husband.” 

Orsino uttered a low exclamation of horror. In the 
deep silence which followed he heard Maria Consuelo 
draw her breath once or twice sharply through her closed 
teeth, as though she were in great pain. 

“I do not wish it known,” she said presently, in a 
changed voice. “I do not know why I told you.” 

“You can trust me.” 

“I must — since I have spoken.” 

In the surprise caused by the startling confidence, 
Orsino suddenly felt that his capacity for sympathy had 
grown to great dimensions. If he had been a woman, the 
tears would have stood in his eyes. Being what he was, 
he felt them in his heart. It was clear that she had 
loved the dead man very dearly. In the light of this 
evident fact, it was hard to explain her conduct towards 


278 


DON ORSINO. 


Orsino during the winter and especially at their last 
meeting. 

For a long time neither spoke again. Orsino, indeed, 
had nothing to say at first, for nothing he could say could 
reasonably be supposed to be of any use. He had learned 
the existence of something like a tragedy in Maria Con- 
suelo’s life, and he seemed to be learning the first lesson 
of friendship, which teaches sympathy. It was not an 
occasion for making insignificant phrases expressing his 
regret at her loss, and the language he needed in order to 
say what he meant was unfamiliar to his lips. He was 
silent, therefore, but his young face was grave and 
thoughtful, and his eyes sought hers from time to time as 
though trying to discover and forestall her wishes. At 
last she glanced at him quickly, then looked down, and 
at last spoke to him. 

“ You will not make me regret having told you this — 
will you?” she asked. 

“No. I promise you that.” 

So far as Orsino could understand the words meant very 
little. He was not very communicative, as a rule, and 
would certainly not tell what he had heard, so that the 
promise was easily given and easy to keep. If he did not 
break it, he did not see that she could have any further 
cause for regretting her confidence in him. Neverthe- 
less, by way of reassuring her, he thought it best to 
repeat what he had said in different words. 

“ You may be quite sure that whatever you choose to 
tell me is in safe keeping,” he said. “And you may be 
sure, too, that if it is in my power to do you a service of 
any kind, you will find me ready, and more than ready, 
to help you.” 

“Thank you,” she answered, looking earnestly at him. 

“Whether the matter be small or great,” he added, 
meeting her eyes. 

Perhaps she expected to find more curiosity on his part, 
and fancied that he would ask some further question^ 
He did not understand the meaning of her look. 


DON OESINO. 


279 


“ I believe you , 99 she said at last. “ I am too much in 
need of a friend to doubt you.” 

“ You have found one.” 

“ I do not know. I am not sure. There are other things 
” she stopped suddenly and looked away. 

“ What other things ? ” 

But Maria Consuelo did not answer. Orsino knew 
that, she was thinking of all that had once passed be- 
tween them. He wondered whether, if he led the way, 
she would press him as she had done at their last meet- 
ing. If she did, he wondered what he should say. He 
had been very cold then, far colder than he was now. He 
now felt drawn to her, as in the first days of their ac- 
quaintance. He felt always that he was on the point of 
understanding her, and yet that he was waiting, for some- 
thing which should help him to pass that point. 

“What other things?” he asked, repeating his ques- 
tion. “ Do you mean that there are reasons which may 
prevent me from being a good friend of yours ? ” 

“I am afraid there are. I do not know.” 

“I think you are mistaken, Madame. Will you name 
some of those reasons — or even one?” 

Maria Consuelo did not answer at once. She glanced 
at him, looked down, and then her eyes met his again. 

“ Do you think that you are the kind of man a woman 
chooses for her friend?” she asked at length, with a 
faint smile. 

“ I have not thought of the matter ” 

“But you should — before offering your friendship.” 

“Why? If I feel a sincere sympathy for your trouble, 
if I am—” he hesitated, weighing his words — “ if I am 
personally attached to you, why can I not help you? I 
am honest, and in earnest. May I say as much as that 
of myself? ” 

“I believe you are.” 

“ Then I cannot see that I am not the sort of man whom 
a woman might take for a friend when a better is not at 
hand.” 


280 


DON ORSINO. 


“And do you believe in friendship, Don Orsino?” 
asked Maria Consuelo quietly. 

“ I have heard it said that it is not wise to disbelieve 
anything nowadays,” answered Orsino. 

“ True — and the word ‘ friend’ has such a pretty sound ! ” 
She laughed, for the first time since he had entered the 
room. 

“ Then it is you who are the unbeliever, Madame. Is 
not that a sign that you need no friend at all, and that 
your questions are not seriously meant?” 

“Perhaps. Who knows?” 

“Do you know, yourself?” 

“No.” Again she laughed a little, and then grew sud- 
denly grave. 

“I never knew a woman who needed a friend more 
urgently than you do,” said Orsino. “I do not in the 
least understand your position. The little you have told 
me makes it clear enough that there have been and still 
are unusual circumstances in your life. One thing I see. 
That woman whom you call your maid is forced upon 
you against your will, to watch you, and is privileged to 
tell lies about you which may do you a great injury. I 
do not ask why you are obliged to suffer her presence, 
but I see that you must, and I guess that you hate it. 
Would it be an act of friendship to free you from her or 
not? ” 

“ At present it would not be an act of friendship, ” an- 
swered Maria Consuelo, thoughtfully. 

“ That is very strange. Do you mean to say that you 
submit voluntarily ” 

“ The woman is a condition imposed upon me. I can- 
not tell you more.” 

“ And no friend, no friendly help can change the con- 
dition, I suppose.” 

“I did not say that. But such help is beyond your 
power, Don Orsino,” she added turning towards him 
rather suddenly. “Let us not talk of this any more. 
Believe me, nothing can be done. You have sometimes 


DON ORSINO. 


281 


acted strangely with me, but I really think you would 
help me if you could. Let that be the state of our ac- 
quaintance. You are willing, and I believe that you are. 
Nothing more. Let that be our compact. But you can 
perhaps help me in another way — a smaller way. I want 
a habitation of some kind for the winter, for I am tired 
of camping out in hotels. You who know your own city 
so well can name some person who will undertake the 
matter.” 

“ I know the very man, ” said Orsino promptly. 

“Will you write out the address for me?” 

“It is not necessary. I mean myself.” 

“I could not let you take so much trouble,” protested 
Maria Consuelo. 

But she accepted, nevertheless, after a little hesitation. 
For some time they discussed the relative advantages of 
the various habitable quarters of the city, both glad, per- 
haps, to find an almost indifferent subject of conversation, 
and both relatively happy merely in being together. The 
talk made one of those restful interludes which are so 
necessary, and often so hard to produce, between two 
people whose thoughts run upon a strong common inter- 
est, and who find it difficult to exchange half a dozen 
words without being led back to the absorbing topic. 

What had been said had produced a decided effect upon 
Orsino. He had come expecting to take up the acquaint- 
ance on a new footing, but ten minutes had not elapsed 
before he had found himself as much interested as ever in 
Maria Consuelo’s personality, and far more interested in 
her life than he had ever been before. While talking 
with more or less indifference about the chances of secur- 
ing a suitable apartment for the winter, Orsino listened 
with an odd sensation of pleasure to every tone of his 
companion’s voice and watched every changing expression 
of the striking face. He wondered whether he were not 
perhaps destined to love her sincerely as he had already 
loved her in a boyish, capricious fashion which would no 
longer be natural to him now. But for the present he 


282 


DON OKSINO. 


was sure that he did not love her, and that he desired 
nothing but her sympathy for himself, and to feel sym- 
pathy for her. Those were the words he used, and he 
did not explain them to his own intelligence in any very 
definite way. He was conscious, indeed, that they 
meant more than formerly, but the same was true of 
almost everything that came into his life, and he did not 
therefore attach any especial importance to the fact. He 
was altogether much more in earnest than when he had 
first met Maria Consuelo; he was capable of deeper feel- 
ing, of stronger determination and of more decided action 
in all matters, and though he did not say so to himself 
he was none the less aware of the change. 

“ Shall we make an appointment for to-morrow?” he 
asked, after they had been talking some time. 

“ Yes — but there is one thing I wanted to ask you ” 

“What is that?” inquired Orsino, seeing that she 
hesitated. 

The faint colour rose in her cheeks, but she looked 
straight into his eyes, with a kind of fearless expression, 
as though she were facing a danger. 

“ Tell me, ” she said, “ in Kome, where everything is 
known and every one talks so much, will it not be thought 
strange that you and I should be driving about together, 
looking for a house for me? Tell me the truth.” 

“What can people say?” asked Orsino. 

“Many things. Will they say them?” 

“If they do, I can make them stop talking.” 

“That means that they will talk, does it not? Would 
you like that?” 

There was a sudden change in her face, with a look of 
doubt and anxious perplexity. Orsino saw it and felt 
that she was putting him upon his honour, and that 
whatever the doubt might be it had nothing to do with 
her trust in him. Six months earlier he would not have 
hesitated to demonstrate that her fears were empty — but 
he felt that six months earlier she might not have yielded 
to his reasoning. It was instinctive, but his instinct was 
not mistaken. 


DON ORSINO. 283 

“I think you are right,” he said slowly. “We should 
not do it. I will send my architect with you.” 

There was enough regret in the tone to show that he 
was making a considerable sacrifice. A little delicacy 
means more when it comes from a strong man, than when 
it is the natural expression of an over-refined and some- 
what effeminate character. And Orsino was rapidly 
developing a strength of which other people were con- 
scious. Maria Consuelo was pleased, though she, too, 
was perhaps sorry to give up the projected plan. 

“After all,” she said, thoughtlessly, “you can come 
and see me here, if ” 

She stopped and blushed again, more deeply this time; 
but she turned her face away and in the half light the 
change of colour was hardly noticeable. 

“You were going to say 4 if you care to see me/” said 
Orsino. “ I am glad you did not say it. It would not 
have been kind.” 

“Yes — I was going to say that,” she answered quietly. 
“But I will not.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Why do you thank me?” 

“For not hurting me.” 

“ Do you think that I would hurt you willingly, in any 
way? ” 

“I would rather not think so. You did once.” 

The words slipped from his lips almost before he had 
time to realise what they meant. He was thinking of the 
night when she had drawn up the carriage window, leav- 
ing him standing on the pavement, and of her repeated 
refusals to see him afterwards. It seemed long ago, and 
the hurt had not really been so sharp as he now fancied 
that it must have been, judging from what he now felt. 
She looked at him quickly as though wondering what he 
would say next. 

“I never meant to be unkind,” she said. “I have often 
asked myself whether you could say as much.” 

It was Orsino’s turn to change colour. He was young 


284 


DON ORSINO. 


enough for that, and the blood rose slowly in his dark 
cheeks. He thought again of their last meeting, and of 
what he had heard as he shut the door after him on that 
day. Perhaps he would have spoken, but Maria Consuelo 
was sorry for what she had said, and a little ashamed of 
her weakness, as indeed she had some cause to be, and 
she immediately turned back to a former point of the 
conversation, not too far removed from what had last 
been said. 

“ You see,” said she, “I was right to ask you whether 
people would talk. And I am grateful to you for telling 
me the truth. It is a first proof of friendship — of some- 
thing better than our old relations. Will you send me 
your architect to-morrow, since you are so kind as to offer 
his help?” 

After arranging for the hour of meeting Orsino rose to 
take his leave. 

“May I come to-morrow?” he asked. “People will 
not talk about that,” he added with a smile. 

“ You can ask for me. I may be out. If I am at home, 
I shall be glad to see you.” 

She spoke coldly, and Orsino saw that she was looking 
over his shoulder. He turned instinctively and saw that 
the door was open and Spicca was standing just outside, 
looking in and apparently waiting for a word from Maria 
Consuelo before entering. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

As Orsino had no reason whatever for avoiding Spicca 
he naturally waited a moment instead of leaving the room 
immediately. He looked at the old man with a new 
interest as the latter came forward. He had never seen 
and probably would never see again a man taking the 
hand of a woman whose husband he had destroyed. He 


DON OKSINO. 


285 


stood a little back and Spicca passed him as he met Maria * 
Consuelo. Orsino watched the faces of both. 

Madame d’Aranjuez put out her hand mechanically and 
with evident reluctance, and Orsino guessed that but for 
his own presence she would not have given it. The ex- 
pression in her face changed rapidly from that which had 
been there when they had been alone, hardening very 
quickly until it reminded Orsino of a certain mask of the 
Medusa which had once made an impression upon his 
imagination. Her eyes were fixed and the pupils grew 
small while the singular golden yellow colour of the iris 
flashed disagreeably. She did not bend her head as she 
silently gave her hand. 

Spicca, too, seemed momentarily changed. He was as 
pale and thin as ever, but his face softened oddly; cer- 
tain lines which contributed to his usually bitter and 
sceptical expression disappeared, while others became 
visible which changed his look completely. He bowed 
with more deference than he affected with other women, 
and Orsino fancied that he would have held Maria Con- 
suelo’s hand a moment longer, if she had not withdrawn 
it as soon as it had touched his. 

If Orsino had not already known that Spicca often saw 
her, he would have been amazed at the count’s visit, con- 
sidering what she had said of the man. As it was, he 
wondered what power Spicca had over her to oblige her 
to receive him, and he wondered in vain. The conclusion 
which forced itself before him was that Spicca was the 
person who imposed the serving woman upon Maria Con- 
suelo. But her behaviour towards him, on the other 
hand, was not that of a person obliged by circumstances 
to submit to the caprices and dictation of another. Judg- 
ing by the appearance of the t^vo, it seemed more probable 
that the power was on the other side, and might be used 
mercilessly on occasion. 

“I hope I am not disturbing your plans,” said Spicca, 
in a tone which was almost humble, and very unlike his 
usual voice. “Were you going out together?” 


286 


DON ORSINO. 


4 He shook hands with Orsino, avoiding his glance, as 
the young man thought. 

“No,” answered Maria Consuelo briefly. “I was not 
going out.” 

“I am just going away,” said Orsino by way of expla- 
nation, and he made as though he would take his leave. 

“Do not go yet,” said Maria Consuelo. Her look made 
the words imperative. 

Spicca glanced from one to the other with a sort of 
submissive protest, and then all three sat down. Orsino 
wondered what part he was expected to play in the trio, 
and wished himself away in spite of the interest he felt 
in the situation. 

Maria Consuelo began to talk in a careless tone which 
reminded him of his first meeting with her in Gouache’s 
studio. She told Spicca that Orsino had promised her 
his architect as a guide in her search for a lodging. 

“What sort of person is he?” inquired Spicca, evi- 
dently for the sake of making conversation. 

“ Contini is a man of business,” Orsino answered. “ An 
odd fellow, full of talent, and a musical genius. One 
would not expect very much of him at first, but he will 
do all that Madame d’Aranjuez needs.” 

“ Otherwise you would not have recommended him, I 
suppose,” said Spicca. 

“Certainly not,” replied Orsino, looking at him. 

“You must know, Madame,” said Spicca, “that Don 
Orsino is an excellent judge of men.” 

He emphasised the last word in a way that seemed 
unnecessary. Maria Consuelo had recovered all her 
equanimity and laughed carelessly. ♦ 

“How you say that! ” she exclaimed. “Is it a warn- 
ing? ” 

“Against what?” asked Orsino. 

“ Probably against you, ” she said. “ Count Spicca likes 
to throw out vague hints — but I will do him the credit to 
say that they generally mean something.” She added 
the last words rather scornfully. 


DON ORSINO. 


287 


An expression of pain passed over the old man’s face. 
But he said nothing, though it was not like him to pass 
by a challenge of the kind. Without in the least under- 
standing the reason of the sensation, Orsino felt sorry for 
him. 

“ Among men, Count Spicca’s opinion is worth hav- 
ing,” he said quietly. 

Maria Consuelo looked at him in some surprise. The 
phrase sounded like a rebuke, and her eyes betrayed her 
annoyance. 

“ How delightful it is to hear one man defend another ! ” 
she laughed. 

“ I fancy Count Spicca does not stand much in need of 
defence,” replied Orsino, without changing his tone. 

“He himself is the best judge of that.” 

Spicca raised his weary eyes to hers and looked at her 
for a moment, before he answered. 

“Yes,” he said. “I think I am the best judge. But I 
am not accustomed to being defended, least of all against 
you, Madame. The sensation is a new one.” 

Orsino felt himself out of place. He was more warmly 
attached to Spicca than he knew, and though he was at 
that time not far removed from loving Maria Consuelo, 
her tone in speaking to the old man, which said far more 
than her words, jarred upon him, and he could not help 
taking his friend’s part. On the other hand the ugly 
truth that Spicca had caused the death of Aranjuez more 
than justified Maria Consuelo in her hatred. Behind all, 
there was evidently some good reason why Spicca came 
to see her, and there was some bond between the two 
which made it impossible for her to refuse his visits. It 
was clear too, that though she hated him he felt some 
kind of strong affection for her. In her presence he was 
very unlike his daily self. 

Again Orsino moved and looked at her, as though ask- 
ing her permission to go away. But she refused it with 
an imperative gesture and a look of annoyance. She 
evidently did not wish to be left alone with the old man. 


288 


DON ODSINO. 


Without paying any further attention to the latter she 
began to talk to Orsino. She took no trouble to conceal 
what she felt and the impression grew upon Orsino that 
Spicca would have gone away after a quarter of an hour, 
if he had not either possessed a sort of right to stay or 
if he had not had some important object in view in re- 
maining. 

“ I suppose there is nothing to do in Rome at this time 
of year,” she said. 

Orsino told her that there was absolutely nothing to 
do. Not a theatre was open, not a friend was in town. 
Rome was a wilderness. Rome was an amphitheatre on 
a day when there was no performance, when the lions 
were asleep, the gladiators drinking, and the martyrs 
unoccupied. He tried to say something amusing and 
found it hard. 

Spicca was very patient, but evidently determined to 
outstay Orsino. From time to time he made a remark, 
to which Maria Consuelo paid very little attention if she 
took any notice of it at all. Orsino could not make up 
his mind whether to stay or to go. The latter course 
would evidently displease Maria Consuelo, whereas by 
remaining he was clearly annoying Spicca and was per- 
haps causing him pain. It was a nice question, and while 
trying to make conversation he weighed the arguments in 
his mind. Strange to say he decided in favour of Spicca. 
The decision was to some extent an index of the state of 
his feelings towards Madame d* Aranjuez. If he had been 
quite in love with her, he would have stayed. If he had 
wished to make her love him, he would have stayed also. 
As it was, his friendship for the old count went before 
other considerations. At the same time he hoped to 
manage matters so as not to incur Maria Consuelo's dis- 
pleasure. He found it harder than he had expected. 
After he had made up his mind, he continued to talk 
during three or four minutes and then made his excuse. 

“I must be going,” he said quietly. “I have a number 
of things to do before night, and I must see Contini in 


DON ORSINO. 


289 


order to give him time to make a list of apartments for 
you to see to-morrow.” 

He took his hat and rose. He was not prepared for 
Maria Consuelo’s answer. 

“ I asked you to stay,” she said, coldly and very dis- 
tinctly. 

Spicca did not allow his expression to change. Orsino 
stared at her. 

“ I am very sorry, Madame, but there are many reasons 
which oblige me to disobey you.” 

Maria Consuelo bit her lip and her eyes gleamed an- 
grily. She glanced at Spicca as though hoping that he 
would go away with Orsino. But he did not move. It 
was more and more clear that he had a right to stay if he 
pleased. Orsino was already bowing before her. In- 
stead of giving her hand she rose quickly and led him 
towards the door. He opened it and they stood together 
on the threshold. 

“Is this the way you help me?” she asked, almost 
fiercely, though in a whisper. 

“Why do you receive him at all? ” he inquired, instead 
of answering. 

“Because I cannot refuse.” 

“But you might send him away?” 

She hesitated, and looked into his eyes. 

“Shall I?” 

“ If you wish to be alone — and if you can. It is no 
affair of mine.” 

She turned swiftly, leaving Orsino standing in the 
loor and went to Spicca’ s side. He had risen when she 
rose and was standing at the other side of the room, 
vatching. 

“I have a bad headache,” she said coldly. “You will 
forgive me if I ask you to go with Don Orsino.” 

“A lady’s invitation to leave her house, Madame, is 
the only one which a man cannot refuse,” said Spicca 
gravely. 

He bowed and followed Orsino out of the room, closing 

u 


290 


DON ORSINO. 


the door behind him. The scene had produced a very 
disagreeable impression upon Orsino. Had he not known 
the worst part of the secret and consequently understood 
what good cause Maria Consuelo had for not wishing to 
be alone with Spicca, he would have been utterly revolted 
and for ever repelled by her brutality. No other word 
could express adequately her conduct towards the count. 
Even knowing what he did, he wished that she had con- 
trolled her temper better and he was more than ever sorry 
for Spicca. It did not even cross his mind that the latter 
might have intentionally provoked Aranjuez and killed 
him purposely. He felt somehow that Spicca was in a 
measure the injured party and must have been in that 
position from the beginning, whatever the strange story 
might be. As the two descended the steps together 
Orsino glanced at his companion’s pale, drawn features 
and was sure that the man was to be pitied. It was 
almost a womanly instinct, far too delicate for such a 
hardy nature, and dependent perhaps upon that sudden 
opening of his sympathies which resulted from meeting 
Maria Consuelo. I think that, on the whole, in such 
cases, though the woman’s character may be formed 
by intimacy with man’s, with apparent results, the 
impression upon the man is momentarily deeper, as 
the woman’s gentler instincts are in a way reflected in 
his heart. 

Spicca recovered himself quickly, however. He took 
out his case and offered Orsino a cigarette. 

“ So you have renewed your acquaintance,” he said 
quietly. 

“Yes — under rather odd circumstances,” answered 
Orsino. “ I feel as though I owed you an apology, Count, 
and yet I do not see what there is to apologise for. I tried 
to go away more than once.” 

“You cannot possibly make excuses to me for Madame 
d’ Aranjuez’ s peculiarities, my friend. Besides, I admit 
that she has a right to treat me as she pleases. That 
does not prevent me from going to see her every day.” 


DON OKSINO. 


291 


“ You must have strong reasons for bearing such treat- 
ment.” 

“ I have,” answered Spicca thoughtfully and sadly. 
“ Very strong reasons. I will tell you one of those which 
brought me to-day. I wished to see you two together.” 

Orsino stopped in his walk, after the manner of Ital- 
ians, and he looked at Spicca. He was hot tempered 
when provoked, and he might have resented the speech 
if it had come from any other man. But he spoke 
quietly. 

“Why do you wish to see us together?” he asked. 

“ Because I am foolish enough to think sometimes that 
you suit one another, and might love one another.” 

Probably nothing which Spicca could have said could 
have surprised Orsino more than such a plain statement. 
He grew suspicious at once, but Spicca’ s look was that of 
a man in earnest. 

“I do not think I understand you,” answered Orsino. 
“But I think you are touching a subject which is better 
left alone.” 

“ I think not, ” returned Spicca unmoved. 

“ Then let us agree to differ, ” said Orsino a little more 
warmly. 

“We cannot do that. I am in a position to make you 
agree with me, and I will. I am responsible for that 
lady’s happiness. I am responsible before God and 
man.” 

Something in the words made a deep impression upon 
Orsino. He had never heard Spicca use anything ap- 
proaching to solemn language before. He knew at least 
one part of the meaning which showed Spicca’s remorse 
for having killed Aranjuez, and he knew that the old man 
meant what he said, and meant it from his heart. 

“Do you understand me now?” asked Spicca, slowly 
inhaling the smoke of his cigarette. 

“Not altogether. If you desire the happiness of 
Madame d’ Aranjuez why do you wish us to fall in love 
with each other? It strikes me that ” he stopped. 


292 


DON ORSINO. 


“ Because I wish you would marry her.” 

“ Marry her ! ” Orsino had not thought of that, and 
his words expressed a surprise which was not calculated 
to please Spicca. 

The old man’s weary eyes suddenly grew keen and fierce 
and Orsino could hardly meet their look. Spicca’s ner- 
vous fingers seized the young man’s tough arm and closed 
upon it with surprising force. 

“ I would advise you to think of that possibility before 
making any more visits,” he said, his weak voice sud- 
denly clearing. “We were talking together a few weeks 
ago. Do you remember what I said I would do to any 
man by whom harm comes to her? Yes, you remember 
well enough. I know what you answered, and I daresay 
you meant it. But I was in earnest, too.” 

“I think you are threatening me, Count Spicca,” said 
Orsino, flushing slowly but meeting the other’s look with 
unflinching coolness. 

“No. I am not. And I will not let you quarrel with 
me, either, Orsino. I have a right to say this to you 
where she is concerned — a right you do not dream of. 
You cannot quarrel about that.” 

Orsino did not answer at once. He saw that Spicca was 
very much in earnest, and was surprised that his manner 
now should be less calm and collected than on the occa- 
sion of their previous conversation, when the count had 
taken enough wine to turn the heads of most men. He 
did not doubt in the least the statement Spicca made. It 
agreed exactly with what Maria Consuelo herself had 
said of him. And the statement certainly changed the 
face of the situation. Orsino admitted to himself that 
he had never before thought of marrying Madame d’ Aran- 
juez. He had not even taken into consideration the con- 
sequences of loving her and of being loved by her in 
return. The moment he thought of a possible marriage 
as the result of such a mutual attachment, he realised the 
enormous difficulties which stood in the way of such a 
union, and his first impulse was to give up visiting her 


DON ORSINO. 


293 


altogether. What Spicca said was at once reasonable 
and unreasonable. Maria Consuelo’s husband was dead, 
and she doubtless expected to marry again. Orsino had 
no right to stand in the way of others who might present 
themselves as suitors. But it was beyond belief that 
Spicca should expect Orsino to marry her himself, know- 
ing Borne and the Bomans as he did. 

The two had been standing still in the shade. Orsino 
began to walk forward again before he spoke. Something 
in his own reflexions shocked him. He did not like to 
think that an impassable social barrier existed between 
Maria Consuelo and himself. Yet, in his total ignorance 
of her origin and previous life the stories which had been 
circulated about her recalled themselves with unpleasant 
distinctness. Nothing that Spicca had said when they 
had dined together had made the matter any clearer, 
though the assurance that the deceased Aranjuez had 
come to his end by Spicca’ s instrumentality sufficiently 
contradicted the worst, if also the least credible, point in 
the tales which had been repeated by the gossips early in 
the previous winter. All the rest belonged entirely to 
the category of the unknown. Yet Spicca spoke seriously 
of a possible marriage and had gone to the length of wish- 
ing that it might be brought about. At last Orsino 
spoke. 

“ You say that you have a right to say what you have 
said,” he began. “ In that case I think I have a right to 
ask a question which you ought to answer. You talk of 
my marrying Madame d’ Aranjuez. You ought to tell me 
whether that is possible.” 

“ Possible?” cried Spicca almost angrily. “What do 
you mean? ” 

“I mean this. You know us all, as you know me. 
You know the enormous prejudices in which we are 
brought up. You know perfectly well that although I 
am ready to laugh at some of them, there are others at 
which I do not laugh. Yet you refused to tell me who 
Madame d’ Aranjuez was, when I asked you, the other 


294 


DON ORSINO. 


day. I do not even know her father’s name, much less 
her mother’s ” 

“No,” answered Spicca. “That is quite true, and I 
see no necessity for telling you either. But, as you say, 
you have some right to ask. I will tell you this much. 
There is nothing in the circumstances of her birth which 
could hinder her marriage into any honourable family. 
Does that satisfy you?” 

Orsino saw that whether he were satisfied or not he 
was to get no further information for the present. He 
might believe Spicca’ s statement or not, as he pleased, 
but he knew that whatever the peculiarities of the melan- 
choly old duellist’s character might be, he never took the 
trouble to invent a falsehood and was as ready as ever to 
support his words. On this occasion no one could have 
doubted him, for there was an unusual ring of sincere 
feeling in what he said. Orsino could not help wonder- 
ing what the tie between him and Madame d’Aranjuez 
could be, for it evidently had the power to make Spicca 
submit without complaint to something worse than or- 
dinary unkindness and to make him defend on all occa- 
sions the name and character of the woman who treated 
him so harshly. It must be a very close bond, Orsino 
thought. Spicca acted very much like a man who loves 
very sincerely and quite hopelessly. There was some- 
thing very sad in the idea that he perhaps loved Maria 
Consuelo, at his age, broken down as he was, and old 
before his time. The contrast between them was so great 
that it must have been grotesque if it had not been 
pathetic. 

Little more passed between the two men on that day, 
before they separated. To Spicca, Orsino seemed indif- 
ferent, and the older man’s reticence after his sudden 
outburst did not tend to prolong the meeting. 

Orsino went in search of Contini and explained what 
was needed of him. He was to make a brief list of 
desirable apartments to let and was to accompany 
Madame d’Aranjuez on the following morning in order 
to see them. 


DON ORSINO. 


295 


Contini was delighted and set out about the work at 
once. Perhaps he secretly hoped that the lady might be 
induced to take a part of one of the new houses, but the 
idea had nothing to do with his satisfaction. He was to 
spend several hours in the sole society of a lady, of a 
genuine lady who was, moreover, young and beautiful. 
He read the little morning paper too assiduously not to 
have noticed the name and pondered over the descriptions 
of Madame d’Aranjuez on the many occasions when she 
had been mentioned by the reporters during the previous 
year. He was too young and too thoroughly Italian not 
to appreciate the good fortune which now fell into his 
way, and he promised himself a morning of uninter- 
rupted enjoyment. He wondered whether the lady could 
be induced by excessive fatigue and thirst to accept a 
water ice at Nazzari’s, and he planned his list of apart- 
ments in such a way as to bring her to the neighbourhood 
of the Piazza di Spogna at an hour when the proposition 
might seem most agreeable and natural. 

Orsino stayed in the office during the hot September 
morning, busying himself with the endless details of 
which he was now master, and thinking from time to time 
of Maria Consuelo. He intended to go and see her in the 
afternoon, and he, like Contini, planned what he should 
do and say. But his plans were all unsatisfactory, and 
once he found himself staring at the blank wall opposite 
his table in a state of idle abstraction long unfamiliar to 
him. 

Soon after twelve o’clock, Contini came back, hot and 
radiant. Maria Consuelo had refused the water ice, but 
the charm of her manner had repaid the architect for the 
disappointment. Orsino asked whether she had decided 
upon any dwelling. 

“She has taken the apartment in the Palazzo Bar- 
berini,” answered Contini. “I suppose she will bring 
her family in the autumn.” 

“Her family? She has none. She is alone.” 

“ Alone in that place ! How rich she must be ! ” Con- 


296 


DON ORSINO. 


tini found the remains of a cigar somewhere and lighted 
it thoughtfully. 

“I do not know whether she is rich or not,” said 
Orsino. “I never thought about it.” 

He began to work at his books again, while Contini 
sat down and fanned himself with a bundle of papers. 

“She admires you very much, Don Orsino,” said the 
latter, after a pause. Orsino looked up sharply. 

“What do you mean by that?” he asked. 

“ I mean that she talked of nothing but you, and in the 
most flattering way.” 

In the oddly close intimacy which had grown up be- 
tween the two men it did not seem strange that Orsino 
should smile at speeches which he would not have liked 
if they had come from any one but the poor architect. 

“What did she say?” he asked with idle curiosity. 

“She said it was wonderful to think what you had 
done. That of all the Roman princes you were the only 
one who had energy and character enough to throw over 
the old prejudices and take an occupation. That it was 
all the more creditable because you had done it from 
moral reasons and not out of necessity or love of money. 
And she said a great many other things of the same 
kind.” 

“ Oh! ” ejaculated Orsino, looking at the wall opposite. 

“It is a pity she is a widow,” observed Contini. 

“Why?” 

“ She would make such a beautiful princess.” 

“You must be mad, Contini! ” exclaimed Orsino, half- 
pleased and half- irritated. “ Do not talk of such follies.” 

“All well! Forgive me,” answered the architect a little 
humbly. “ I am not you, you know, and my head is not 
yours — nor my name — nor my heart either.” 

Contini sighed, puffed at his cigar and took up some 
papers. He was already a little in love with Maria Con- 
suelo, and the idea that any man might marry her if he 
pleased, but would not, was incomprehensible to him. 

The day wore on. Orsino finished his work as thor- 


DON ORSINO. 


297 


oughly as though he had been a paid clerk, put every- 
thing in order and went away. Late in the afternoon he 
went to see Maria Consuelo. He knew that she would 
usually be already out at that hour, and he fancied that 
he was leaving something to chance in the matter of find- 
ing her, though an unacknowledged instinct told him that 
she would stay at home after the fatigue of the morning. 

“We shall not be interrupted by Count Spicca to-day,” 
she said, as he sat down beside her. 

In spite of what he knew, the hard tone of her voice 
roused again in Orsino that feeling of pity for the old 
man which he had felt on the previous day. 

“Does it not seem to you,” he asked, “that if you re- 
ceive him at all, you might at least conceal something of 
your hatred for him?” 

“ Why should I? Have you forgotten what I told you 
yesterday? ” 

“ It would be hard to forget that, though you told me 
no details. But it is not easy to imagine how you can 
see him at all if he killed your husband deliberately in 
a duel.” 

“ It is impossible to put the case more plainly ! ” ex- 
claimed Maria Consuelo. 

“ Do I offend you? ” 

“No. Not exactly. ” 

“ Forgive me, if I do. If Spicca, as I suppose, was the 
unwilling cause of your great loss, he is much to be 
pitied. I am not sure that he does not deserve almost as 
much pity as you do.” 

“How can you say that — even if the rest were true?” 

“Think of what he must suffer. He is devotedly 
attached to you.” 

“I know he is. You have told me that before, and I 
have given you the same answer. I want neither his 
attachment nor his devotion.” 

“Then refuse to see him.” 

“I cannot.” 

“We come back to the same point again,” said Orsino. 


298 


DON ORSINO. 


“ We always shall, if you talk about this. There is no 
other issue. Things are what they are and I cannot 
change them.” 

“ Do you know, ” said Orsino, “ that all this mystery is 
a very serious hindrance to friendship?” 

Maria Consuelo was silent for a moment. 

“Is it?” she asked presently. “Have you always 
thought so?” 

The question was a hard one to answer. 

“You have always seemed mysterious to me,” answered 
Orsino. “Perhaps that is a great attraction. But in- 
stead of learning the truth about you, I am finding out 
that there are more and more secrets in your life which 
I must not know.” 

“Why should you know them?” 

“Because ” Orsino checked himself, almost with 

a start. 

He was annoyed at the words which had been so near 
his lips, for he had been on the point of saying “ because 
I love you ” — and he was intimately convinced that he 
did not love her. He could not in the least understand 
why the phrase was so ready to be spoken. Could it be, 
he asked himself, that Maria Consuelo was trying to 
make him say the words, and that her will, with her 
question, acted directly on his mind? He scouted the 
thought as soon as it presented itself, not only for its 
absurdity, but because it shocked some inner sensibility, 

“What were you going to say?” asked Madame 
d’Aranjuez almost carelessly. 

“ Something that is best not said, ” he answered. 

“Then I am glad you did not say it.” 

She spoke quietly and unaffectedly. It needed little 
divination on her part to guess what the words might 
have been. Even if she wished them spoken, she would 
not have them spoken too lightly, for she had heard his 
love speeches before, when they had meant very little. 

Orsino suddenly turned the subject, as though he felt 
unsure of himself. He asked her about the result of her 


DON ORSINO. 


299 


search in the morning. She answered that she had de- 
termined to take the apartment in the Palazzo Barberini. 

“I believe it is a very large place,” observed Orsino, 
indifferently. 

“Yes,” she answered in the same tone. “I mean to 
receive this winter. But it will be a tiresome affair to 
furnish such a wilderness.” 

“ I suppose you mean to establish yourself in Borne for 
several years.” His face expressed a satisfaction of 
which he was hardly conscious himself. Maria Consuelo 
noticed it. 

“You seem pleased,” she said. 

“How could I possibly not be?” he asked. 

Then he was silent. All his own words seemed to him 
to mean too much or too little. He wished she would 
choose some subject of conversation and talk that he 
might listen. But she also was unusually silent. 

He cut his visit short, very suddenly, and left her, say- 
ing that he hoped to find her at home as a general rule at 
that hour, quite forgetting that she would naturally be 
always out at the cool time towards evening. 

He walked slowly homewards in the dusk, and did not 
remember to go to his solitary dinner until nearly nine 
o’clock. He was not pleased with himself, but he was 
involuntarily pleased by something he felt and would not 
have been insensible to if he had been given the choice. 
His old interest in Maria Consuelo was reviving, and yet 
was turning into something very different from what it 
had been. 

He now boldly denied to himself that he was in love 
and forced himself to speculate concerning the possibili- 
ties of friendship. In his young system, it was absurd 
to suppose that a man could fall in love a second time 
with the same woman. He scoffed at himself, at the idea 
and at his own folly, having all the time a consciousness 
amounting to certainty, of something very real and 
serious, by no means to be laughed at, overlooked nor 
despised. 


800 


DON OBSINO. 


CHAPTER XX. 

It was to be foreseen that Orsino and Maria Consuelo 
would see each other more often and more intimately now 
than ever before. Apart from the strong mutual attrac- 
tion which drew them nearer and nearer together, there 
were many new circumstances which rendered Orsino’ s 
help almost indispensable to his friend. The details of her 
installation in the apartment she had chosen were many, 
there was much to be thought of and there were enormous 
numbers of things to be bought, almost each needing 
judgment and discrimination in the choice. Had the two 
needed reasonable excuses for meeting very often they 
had them ready to their hand. But neither of them were 
under any illusion, and neither cared to affect that pecul- 
iar form of self-forgiveness which finds good reasons 
always for doing what is always pleasant. Orsino, in- 
deed, never pressed his services and was careful not to be 
seen too often in public with Maria Consuelo by the few 
acquaintances who were in town. Nor did Madame 
d’Aranjuez actually ask his help at every turn, any more 
than she made any difficulty about accepting it. There 
was a tacit understanding between them which did away 
with all necessity for inventing excuses on the one hand, 
or for the affectation of fearing to inconvenience Orsino 
on the other. During some time, however, the subjects 
which both knew to be dangerous were avoided, with an 
unspoken mutual consent for which Maria Consuelo was 
more grateful than for all the trouble Orsino was giving 
himself on her account. She fancied, perhaps, that he 
had at last accepted the situation, and his society gave 
her too much happiness to allow of her asking whether 
his discretion would or could last long. 

It was an anomalous relation which bound them to- 
gether, as is often the case at some period during the 
development of a passion, and most often when the ab- 


BON OB.SINO. 


301 


sence of obstacles makes the growth of affection slow and 
regular. It was a period during which a new kind of 
intimacy began to exist, as far removed from the half- 
serious, half-jesting intercourse of earlier days as it was 
from the ultimate happiness to which all those who love 
look forward with equal trust, although few ever come 
near it and fewer still can ever reach it quite. It was 
outwardly a sort of frank comradeship which took a vast 
deal for granted on both sides for the mere sake of escap- 
ing analysis, a condition in which each understood all that 
the other said, while neither quite knew what was in the 
other’s heart, a state in which both were pleased to dwell 
for a time, as though preferring to prolong a sure if im- 
perfect happiness rather than risk one moment of it for 
the hope of winning a life-long joy. It was a time during 
which mere friendship reached an artificially perfect 
beauty, like a summer fruit grown under glass in winter, 
which in thoroughly unnatural conditions attains a devel- 
opment almost impossible even where unhelped nature is 
most kind. Both knew, perhaps, that it could not last, 
but neither wished it checked, and neither liked to think 
of the moment when it must either begin to wither by 
degrees, or be suddenly absorbed into a greater and more 
dangerous growth. 

At that time they were able to talk fluently upon the 
nature of the human heart and the durability of great 
affections. They propounded the problems of the world 
and discussed them between the selection of a carpet and 
the purchase of a table. They were ready at any moment 
to turn from the deepest conversation to the consideration 
of the merest detail, conscious that they could instantly 
take up the thread of their talk. They could separate the 
major proposition from the minor, and the deduction 
from both, by a lively argument concerning the durability 
of a stuff or the fitness of a piece of furniture, and they 
came back each time with renewed and refreshed interest 
to the consideration of matters little less grave than the 
resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to 


302 


DON OltSINO. 


come. That their conclusions were not always logical 
nor even very sensible has little to do with the matter. 
On the contrary, the discovery of a flaw in their own 
reasoning was itself a reason for opening the question 
again at their next meeting. 

At first their conversation was of general things, in- 
cluding the desirability of glory for its own sake, the 
immortality of the soul and the principles of architec- 
ture. Orsino was often amazed to find himself talking, 
and, as he fancied, talking well, upon subjects of which 
he had hitherto supposed with some justice that he knew 
nothing. By and by they fell upon literature and dis- 
sected the modern novel with the keen zest of young 
people who seek to learn the future secrets of their own 
lives from vivid descriptions of the lives of others. 
Their knowledge of the modern novel was not so limited 
as their acquaintance with many other things less amus- 
ing, if more profitable, and they worked the vein with 
lively energy and mutual satisfaction. 

Then, as always, came the important move. They 
began to talk of love. The interest ceased to be objective 
or in any way vicarious and was transferred directly to 
themselves. 

These steps are not, I think, to be ever thought of as 
stages in the development of character in man or woman. 
They are phases in the intercourse of man and woman. 
Clever people know them well and know how to produce 
them at will. The end may or may not be love, but an 
end of some sort is inevitable. According to the persons 
concerned, according to circumstances, according to the 
amount of available time, the progression from general 
subjects to the discussion of love, with self -application 
of the conclusions, more or less sincere, may occupy an 
hour, a month or a year. Love is the one subject which 
ultimately attracts those not too old to talk about it, and 
those who consider that they have reached such an age are 
few. 

In the case of Orsino and Maria Consuelo, neither of 


DOX OESINO. 


303 


the two was making any effort to lead up to a certain 
definite result, for both felt a real dread of reaching that 
point which is ever afterwards remembered as the last 
moment of hardly sustained friendship and the first of 
something stronger and too often less happy. Orsino 
was inexperienced, but Maria Consuelo was quite con- 
scious of the tendency in a fixed direction. Whether she 
had made up her mind, or not, she tried as skilfully as 
she could to retard the movement, for she was very 
happy in the present and probably feared the first stir- 
ring of her own ardently passionate nature. 

As for Orsino, indeed, his inexperience was relative. 
He was anxious to believe that he was only her friend, 
and pretended to his own conscience that he could not 
explain the frequency with which the words “ I love you ” 
presented themselves. The desire to speak them was 
neither a permanent impulse of which he was always 
conscious nor a sudden strong emotion like a temptation, 
giving warning of itself by a few heart-beats before it 
reached its strength. The words came to his lips so 
naturally and unexpectedly that he often wondered how 
he saved himself from pronouncing them. It was impos- 
sible for him to foresee when they would crave utterance. 
At last he began to fancy that they rang in his mind 
without a reason and without a wish on his part to speak 
them, as a perfectly indifferent tune will ring in the ear 
for days so that one cannot get rid of it. 

Maria Consuelo had not intended to spend September 
and October altogether in Rome. She had supposed that 
it would be enough to choose her apartment and give 
orders to some person about the furnishing of it to her 
taste, and that after that she might go to the seaside until 
the heat should be over, coming up to the city from time 
to time as occasion required. But she seemed to have 
changed her mind. She did not even suggest the possi- 
bility of going away. 

She generally saw Orsino in the afternoon. He found 
no difficulty in making time to see her, whenever he could 


304 


DOX ORSIKO. 


be useful, but bis own business naturally occupied all 
the earlier part of the day. As a rule, therefore, he 
called between half-past four and five, and so soon as it 
was cool enough they went together to the Palazzo Bar- 
berini to see what progress the upholsterers were making 
and to consider matters of taste. The great half-fur- 
nished rooms with the big windows overlooking the little 
garden before the palace were pleasant to sit in and wan- 
der in during the hot September afternoons. The pair 
were not often quite alone, even for a quarter of an hour, 
the place being full of workmen who came and went, 
passed and repassed, as their occupations required, often 
asking for orders and probably needing more supervision 
than Maria Consuelo bestowed upon them. 

On a certain evening late in September the two were 
together in the large drawing-room. Maria Consuelo was 
tired and was leaning back in a deep seat, her hands 
folded upon her knee, watching Orsino as he slowly paced 
the carpet, crossing and recrossing in his short walk, his 
face constantly turned towards her. It was excessively 
hot. The air was sultry with thunder, and though it was 
past five o’clock the windows were still closely shut to 
keep out the heat. A clear, soft light filled the room, 
not reflected from a burning pavement, but from grass and 
plashing water. 

They had been talking of a chimneypiece which Maria 
Consuelo wished to have placed in the hall. The style 
of what she wanted suggested the sixteenth century, 
Henry Second of Prance, Diana of Poitiers and the dura- 
bility of the affections. The transition from fireplaces to 
true love had been accomplished with comparative ease, 
the result of daily practice and experience. It is worth 
noting, for the benefit of the young, that furniture is an 
excellent subject for conversation for that very reason, 
nothing being simpler than to go in three minutes from a 
table to an epoch, from an epoch to an historical person 
and from that person to his or her love story. A young 
man would do well to associate the life of some famous 


DON ORSINO. 


305 


lover or celebrated and unhappy beauty with each style 
of woodwork and upholstery. It is always convenient. 
But if he has not the necessary preliminary knowledge 
he may resort to a stratagem. 

“What a comfortable chair!” says he, as he deposits 
his hat on the floor and sits down. 

“Do you like comfortable chairs?” 

“ Of course. Fancy what life was in the days of stiff 
wooden seats, when you had to carry a cushion about 
with you. You know that sort of thing — twelfth cen- 
tury, Francesca da Rimini and all that.” 

“Poor Francesca! ” 

If she does not say “ Poor Francesca ! ” as she probably 
will, you can say it yourself, very feelingly and in a 
different tone, after a short pause. The one kiss which 
cost two lives makes the story particularly useful. And 
then the ice is broken. If Paolo and Francesca had not 
been murdered, would they have loved each other for 
ever? As nobody knows what they would have done, 
you can assert that they would have been faithful or not, 
according to your taste, humour or personal intentions. 
Then you can talk about the husband, whose very hasty 
conduct contributed so materially to the shortness of the 
story. If you wish to be thought jealous, you say he 
was quite right; if you desire to seem generous, you say 
with equal conviction that he was quite wrong. And so 
forth. Get to generalities as soon as possible in order to 
apply them to your own case. 

Orsino and Maria Consuelo were the guileless victims 
of furniture, neither of them being acquainted with the 
method just set forth for the instruction of the innocent. 
They fell into their own trap and wondered how they had 
got from mantelpieces to hearts in such an incredibly 
short time. 

“ It is quite possible to love twice,” Orsino was saying. 

“ That depends upon what you mean by love, ” answered 
Maria Consuelo, watching him with half-closed eyes. 

Orsino laughed. 


x 


306 


DON OESINO. 


“What I mean by love? I suppose I mean very much 
what other people mean by it — or a little more,” he 
added, and the slight change in his voice pleased her. 

“ Do you think that any two understand the same thing 
when they speak of love?” she asked. 

“We two might,” he answered, resuming his indif- 
ferent tone. “ After all, we have talked so much together 
during the last month that we ought to understand each 
other.” 

“Yes,” said Maria Consuelo. “And I think we do,” 
she added thoughtfully. 

“ Then why should we think differently about the same 
thing? But I am not going to try and define love. It is 
not easily defined, and I am not clever enough.” He 
laughed again. “ There are many illnesses which I can- 
not define — but I know that one may have them twice.” 

“ There are others which one can only have once — dan- 
gerous ones, too.” 

“ I know it. But that has nothing to do with the ar- 
gument.” 

“I think it has — if this is an argument at all.” 

“Ho. Love is not enough like an illness — it is quite 
the contrary. It is a recovery from an unnatural state — 
that of not loving. One may fall into that state and re- 
cover from it more than once.” 

“ What a sophism ! ” 

“Why do you say that? Do you think that not to love 
is the normal condition of mankind?” 

Maria Consuelo was silent, still watching him. 

“You have nothing to say,” he continued, stopping 
and standing before her. “ There is nothing to be said. 
A man or woman who does not love is in an abnormal 
state. When he or she falls in love it is a recovery. One 
may recover so long as the heart has enough vitality. 
Admit it — for you must. It proves that any properly 
constituted person may love twice, at least.” 

“There is an idea of faithlessness in it, nevertheless,” 
said Maria Consuelo, thoughtfully. “Or if it is not 


DON ORSINO. 


307 


faithless, it is fickle. It is not the same to oneself to 
love twice. One respects oneself less.” 

“I cannot believe that.” 

“ We all ought to believe it. Take a case as an in- 
stance. A woman loves a man with all her heart, to the 
point of sacrificing very much for him. He loves her in 
the same way. In spite of the strongest opposition, they 
agree to be married. On the very day of the marriage 
he is taken from her — for ever — loving her as he has 
always loved her, and as he would always have loved her 
had he lived. What would such a woman feel, if she 
found herself forgetting such a love as that after two or 
three years, for another man? Do you think she would 
respect herself more or less? Do you think she would 
have the right to call herself a faithful woman? ” 

Orsino was silent for a moment, seeing that she meant 
herself by the example. She, indeed, had only told him 
that her husband had been killed, but Spicca had once 
said of her that she had been married to a man who had 
never been her husband. 

“A memory is one thing — real life is quite another,” 
said Orsino at last, resuming his walk. 

“ And to be faithful cannot possibly mean to be faith- 
less,” answered Maria Consuelo in a low voice. 

She rose and went to one of the windows. She must 
have wished to hide her face, for the outer blinds and 
the glass casement were both shut and she could see 
nothing but the green light that struck the painted wood. 
Orsino went to her side. 

“ Shall I open the window? ” he asked in a constrained 
voice. 

“No — not yet. I thought I could see out.” 

Still she stood where she was, her face almost touching 
the pane, one small white hand resting upon the glass, 
the fingers moving restlessly. 

“You meant yourself, just now,” said Orsino softly. 

She neither spoke nor moved, but her face grew pale. 
Then he fancied that there was a hardly perceptible 


308 


DCXN" ORSINO. 


movement of her head, the merest shade of an inclina- 
tion. He leaned a little towards her, resting against the 
marble sill of the window. 

“And you meant something more ” he began to 

say. Then he stopped short. 

His heart was beating hard and the hot blood throbbed 
in his temples, his lips closed tightly and his breathing 
was audible. 

Maria Consuelo turned her head, glanced at him 
quickly and instantly looked back at the smooth glass 
before her and at the green light on the shutters with- 
out. He was scarcely conscious that she had moved. In 
love, as in a storm at sea, matters grow very grave in a 
few moments. 

“You meant that you might still ” Again he 

stopped. The words would not come. 

He fancied that she would not speak. She could not, 
any more than she could have left his side at that moment. 
The air was very sultry even in the cool, closed room. 
The green light on the shutters darkened suddenly. Then 
a far distant peal of thunder rolled its echoes slowly over 
the city. Still neither moved from the window. 

“If you could ” Orsino’s voice was low and soft, 

but there was something strangely overwrought in the 
nervous quality of it. It was not hesitation any longer 
that made him stop. 

“ Could you love me? r he asked. He thought he spoke 
aloud. When he had spoken, he knew that he had whis- 
pered the words. 

His face was colourless. He heard a short, sharp 
breath, drawn like a gasp. The small white hand fell 
from the window and gripped his own with sudden, vio- 
lent strength. Neither spoke. Another peal of thunder, 
nearer and louder, shook the air. Then Orsino heard the 
quick-drawn breath again, and the white hand went ner- 
vously to the fastening of the window. Orsino opened 
the casement and thrust back the blinds. There was a 
vivid flash, more thunder, and a gust of stifling wind. 


DON ORSINO. 


309 


Maria Consuelo leaned far out, looking up, and a few 
great drops of rain began to fall. 

The storm burst and the cold rain poured down furi- 
ously, wetting the two white faces at the window. Maria 
Consuelo drew back a little, and Orsino leaned against 
the open casement, watching her. It was as though the 
single pressure of their hands had crushed out the power 
of speech for a time. 

For weeks they had talked daily together during many 
hours. They could not foresee that at the great moment 
there would be nothing left for them to say. The rain 
fell in torrents and the gusty wind rose and buffeted the 
face of the great palace with roaring strength, to sink 
very suddenly an instant later in the steadily rushing 
noise of the water, springing up again without warning, 
rising and falling, falling and rising, like a great sob- 
bing breath. The wind and the rain seemed to be speak- 
ing for the two who listened to it. 

Orsino watched Maria Consuelo’s face, not scrutinising 
it, nor realising very much whether it were beautiful or 
not, nor trying to read the thoughts that were half ex- 
pressed in it — not thinking at all, indeed, but only loving 
it wholly and in every part for the sake of the woman 
herself, as he had never dreamed of loving any one or 
anything. 

At last Maria Consuelo turned very slowly and looked 
into his eyes. The passionate sadness faded, out of the 
features, the faint colour rose again, the full lips relaxed, 
the smile that came was full of a happiness that seemed 
almost divine. 

“ I cannot help it, ” she said. 

“Can I?” 

“ Truly ?” 

Her hand was lying on the marble ledge. Orsino laid 
his own upon it, and both trembled a little. She under- 
stood more than any word could have told her. 

“For how long?” she asked. 

“For all our lives now, and for all our life hereafter,” 


310 


DON ORSINO. 


He raised her hand to his lips, bending his head, and 
then he drew her from the window, and they walked 
slowly up and down the great room. 

“ It is very strange,” she said presently, in a low voice. 

“That I should love you?” 

“Yes. Where were we an hour ago? What is become 
of that old time — that was an hour ago?” 

“I have forgotten, dear — that was in the other life.” 

“The other life! Yes — how unhappy I was — there, 
by that window, a hundred years ago ! ” 

She laughed softly, and Orsino smiled as he looked 
down at her. 

“Are you happy now?” 

“Do not ask me — how could I tell you?” 

“ Say it to yourself, love — I shall see it in your dear 
face.” 

“Am I not saying it?” 

Then they were silent again, walking side by side, 
their arms locked and pressing one another. 

It began to dawn upon Orsino that a great change had 
come into his life, and he thought of the consequences of 
what he was doing. He had not said that he was happy, 
but in the first moment he had felt it more than she. 
The future, however, would not be like the present, and 
could not be a perpetual continuation of it. Orsino was 
not at all of a romantic disposition, and the practical side 
of things was always sure to present itself to his mind 
very early in any affair. It was a part of his nature and 
by no means hindered him from feeling deeply and loving 
sincerely. But it shortened his moments of happiness. 

“Do you know what this means to you and me?” he 
asked, after a time. 

Maria Consuelo started very slightly and looked up at 
him. 

“Let us think of to-morrow — to-morrow,” she said. 
Her voice trembled a little. 

“Is it so hard to think of?” asked Orsino, fearing lest 
he had displeased her. 


DON ORSINO. 


311 


“Very hard,” she answered, in a low voice. 

“Not for me. Why should it be? If anything can 
make to-day more complete, it is to think that to-morrow 
will be more perfect, and the next day still more, and so 
on, each day better than the one before it.” 

Maria Consuelo shook her head. 

“Do not speak of it,” she said. 

“Will you not love me to-morrow?” Orsino asked. 
The light in his face told how little earnestly he asked 
the question, but she turned upon him quickly. 

“ Do you doubt yourself, that you should doubt me ? ” 
There was a ring of terror in the words that startled him 
as he heard them. 

“Beloved — no — how can you think I meant it?” 

“Then do not say it.” She shivered a little, and bent 
down her head. 

“No — I will not. But — dear — do you know where we 
are?” 

“Where we are?” she repeated, not understanding. 

“Yes — where we are. This was to have been your 
home this year.” 

“Was to have been?” A frightened look came into 
her face. 

“ It will not be, now. Your home is not in this house.” 

Again she shook her head, turning her face away. 

“It must be,” she said. 

Orsino was surprised beyond expression by the answer. 

“ Either you do not know what you are saying, or you 
do not mean it, dear, ” he said. “ Or else you will not 
understand me.” 

“I understand you too well.” 

Orsino made her stop and took both her hands, looking 
down into her eyes. 

“You will marry me,” he said. 

“ I cannot marry you, ” she answered. 

Her face grew even paler than it had been when they 
had stood at the window, and so full of pain and sadness 
that it hurt Orsino to look at it. But the words she 


312 


DCXN- ORSIiSTO. 


spoke, in her clear, distinct tones, struck him like a blow 
unawares. He knew that she loved him, for her love was 
in every look and gesture, without attempt at conceal- 
ment. He believed her to be a good woman. He was 
certain that her husband was dead. He could not under- 
stand, and he grew suddenly angry. An older man would 
have done worse, or a man less in earnest. 

“ You must have a reason to give me — and a good one,” 
he said gravely. 

“ I have.” 

She turned slowly away and began to walk alone. He 
followed her. 

“ You must tell it,” he said. 

“Tell it? Yes, I will tell it to you. It is a solemn 
promise before God, given to a man who died in my arms 
— to my husband. Would you have me break such a 

TOW?” 

“Yes.” Orsino drew a long breath. The objection 
seemed insignificant enough compared with the pain it 
had cost him before it had been explained. 

“ Such promises are not binding, ” he continued, after 
a moment’s pause. “ Such a promise is made hastily, 
rashly, without a thought of the consequences. You 
have no right to keep it.” 

“Ho right? Orsino, what are you saying! Is not an 
oath an oath, however it is taken? Is not a vow made 
ten times more sacred when the one for whom it was taken 
is gone? Is there any difference between my promise 
and that made before the altar by a woman who gives up 
the world? Should I be any better, if I broke mine, 
than the nun who broke hers?” 

“You cannot be in earnest?” exclaimed Orsino in a 
low voice. 

Maria Consuelo did not answer. She went towards the 
window and looked at the splashing rain. Orsino stood 
where he was, watching her. Suddenly she came back 
and stood before him. 

“We must undo this,” she said. 


DOK OBSINO. 


313 


“What do you mean?” He understood well enough. 

“You know. We must not love each other. We must 
undo to-day and forget it.” 

“ If you can talk so lightly of forgetting, you have little 
to remember,” answered Orsino almost roughly. 

“You have no right to say that.” 

“I have the right of a man who loves you.” 

“The right to be unjust?” 

“ I am not unjust.” His tone softened again. “ I know 
what it means, to say that I love you — it is my life, this 
love. I have known it a long time. It has been on 
my lips to say it for weeks, and since it has been 
said, it cannot be unsaid. A moment ago you told 
me not to doubt you. I do not. And now you say 
that we must not love each other, as though we had a 
choice to make — and why? Because you once made a 
rash promise ” 

“Hush!” interrupted Maria Consuelo. “You must 
not ” 

“ I must and will. You made a promise, as though you 
had a right at such a moment to dispose of all your life 
— I do not speak of mine — as though you could know 
what the world held for you, and could renounce it all 
beforehand. I tell you you had no right to make such 
an oath, and a vow taken without the right to take it is 
no vow at all ” 

“ It is — it is ! I cannot break it ! ” 

“ If you love me you will. But you say we are to for- 
get. Forget! It is so easy to say. How shall we do 
it?” 

“ I will go away ” 

“ If you have the heart to go away, then go. But I 
will follow you. The world is very small, they say — it 
will not be hard for me to find you, wherever you are.” 

“ If I beg you — if I ask it as the only kindness, the 
only act of friendship, the only proof of your love — you 
will not come — you will not do that ” 

“I will, if it costs your soul and mine.” 


314 


DON ORSINO. 


“Orsino! You do not mean it — you see how unhappy 
I am, how I am trying to do right, how hard it is ! ” 

“ 1 see that you are trying to ruin both our lives. I 
will not let you. Besides, you do not mean it.” 

Maria Consuelo looked into his eyes and her own grew 
deep and dark. Then as though she felt herself yielding, 
she turned away and sat down in a chair that stood apart 
from the rest. Orsino followed her, and tried to take 
her hand, bending down to meet her downcast glance. 

“You do not mean it, Consuelo,” he said earnestly. 
“You do not mean one hundredth part of what you 
say.” 

She drew her fingers from his, and turned her head 
sideways against the back of the chair so that she could 
not see him. He still bent over her, whispering into her 
ear. 

“You cannot go,” he said. “You will not try to for- 
get — for neither you nor I can — nor ought, cost what it 
might. You will not destroy what is so much to us — 
you would not, if you could. Look at me, love — do not 
turn away. Let me see it all in your eyes, all the truth 
of it and of every word I say.” 

Still she turned her face from him. But she breathed 
quickly with parted lips and the colour rose slowly in her 
pale cheeks. 

“It must be sweet to be loved as I love you, dear,” he 
said, bending still lower and closer to her. “ It must be 
some happiness to know that you are so loved. Is there 
so much joy in your life that you can despise this? There 
is none in mine, without you, nor ever can be unless we 
are always together — always, dear, always, always.” 

She moved a little, and the drooping lids lifted almost 
imperceptibly. 

“ Do not tempt me, dear one,” she said in a faint voice. 
“Let me go — let me go.” 

Orsino’ s dark face was close to hers now, and she could 
see his bright eyes. Once she tried to look away, and 
could not. Again she tried, lifting her head from the 


DON ORSINO. 


315 


cushioned chair. But his arm went round her neck and 
her cheek rested upon his shoulder. 

“Go, love,” he said softly, pressing her more closely. 
“ Go — let us not love each other. It is so easy not to 
love.” 

She looked up into his eyes again with a sudden shiver, 
and they both grew very pale. For ten seconds neither 
spoke nor moved. Then their lips met. 


CHAPTER XXL 

When Orsino was alone that night, he asked himself 
more than one question which he did not find it easy to 
answer. He could define, indeed, the relation in which 
he now stood to Maria Consuelo, for though she had ul- 
timately refused to speak the words of a promise, he no 
longer doubted that she meant to be his wife and that her 
scruples were overcome for ever. This was, undeniably, 
the most important point in the whole affair, so far as his 
own satisfaction was concerned, but there were others of 
the gravest import to be considered and elucidated before 
he could even weigh the probabilities of future happiness. 

He had not lost his head on the present occasion, as he 
had formerly done when his passion had been anything 
but sincere. He was perfectly conscious that Maria 
Consuelo was now the principal person concerned in his 
life and that the moment would inevitably have come, 
sooner or later, in which he must have told her so as he 
had done on this day. He had not yielded to a sudden 
impulse, but to a steady and growing pressure from which 
there had been no means of escape, and which he had 
not sought to elude. He was not in one of those moods 
of half-senseless, exuberant spirits, such as had come 
upon him more than once during the winter after he had 
been an hour in her society and had said or done some- 


316 


DON ORSINO. 


thing more than usually rash. On the contrary, he was 
inclined to look the whole situation soberly in the face, 
and to doubt whether the love which dominated him 
might not prove a source of unhappiness to Maria Con- 
suelo as well as to himself. At the same time he knew 
that it would be useless to fight against that domination, 
for he knew that he was now absolutely sincere. 

But the difficulties to be met and overcome were many 
and great. He might have betrothed himself to almost 
any woman in society, widow or spinster, without antici- 
pating one hundredth part of the opposition which he 
must now certainly encounter. He was not even angry 
beforehand with the prejudice which would animate his 
father and mother, for he admitted that it was hardly a 
prejudice at all, and certainly not one peculiar to them, 
or to their class. It would be hard to find a family, any- 
where, of any respectability, no matter how modest, that 
would accept without question such a choice as he had 
made. Maria Consuelo was one of those persons about 
whom the world is ready to speak in disparagement, 
knowing that it will not be easy to find defenders for 
them. The world indeed, loves its own and treats them 
with consideration, especially in the matter of passing 
follies, and after it had been plain to society that Orsino 
had fallen under Maria Consuelo's charm, he had heard 
no more disagreeable remarks about her origin nor the 
circumstances of her widowhood. But he remembered 
what had been said before that, when he himself had lis- 
tened indifferently enough, and he guessed that ill-natured 
people called her an adventuress or little better. If any- 
thing could have increased the suffering which this intui- 
tive knowledge caused him, it was the fact that he 
possessed no proof of her right to rank with the best, 
except his own implicit faith in her, and the few words 
Spicca had chosen to let fall. Spicca was still thought 
so dangerous that people hesitated to contradict him 
openly, but his mere assertion, Orsino thought, though 
it might be accepted in appearance, was not of enough 


DON ORSINO. 


317 


weight to carry inward conviction with it in the minds 
of people who had no interest in being convinced. It 
was only too plain that, unless Maria Consuelo, or Spicca, 
or both, were willing to tell the strange story in its integ- 
rity, there were not proof enough to convince the most 
willing person of her right to the social position she oc- 
cupied after that had once been called into question. 
To Orsino’s mind the very fact that it had been ques- 
tioned at all demonstrated sufficiently a carelessness on 
her own part which could only proceed from the certainty 
of possessing that right beyond dispute. It would doubt- 
less have been possible for her to provide herself from the 
first with something in the nature of a guarantee for her 
identity. She could surely have had the means, through 
some friend of her own elsewhere, of making the ac- 
quaintance of some one in society, who would have 
vouched for her and silenced the carelessly spiteful talk 
concerning her which had gone the rounds when she first 
appeared. But she had seemed to be quite indifferent. 
She had refused Orsino’s pressing offer to bring her into 
relations with his mother, whose influence would have 
been enough to straighten a reputation far more doubtful 
than Maria Consuelo’ s, and she had almost wilfully 
thrown herself into a sort of intimacy with the Countess 
Del Ferice. 

But Orsino, as he thought of these matters, saw how 
futile such arguments must seem to his own people, and 
how absurdly inadequate they were to better his own 
state of mind, since he needed no conviction himself but 
sought the means of convincing others. One point alone 
gave him some hope. Under the existing laws the in- 
evitable legal marriage would require the production of 
documents which would clear the whole story at once. 
On the other hand, that fact could make Orsino’s position 
no easier with his father and mother until the papers 
were actually produced. People cannot easily be married 
secretly in Rome, where the law requires the publication 
of banns by posting them upon the doors of the Capitol, 


318 


DON ORSINO. 


and the name of Orsino Saracinesca would not be easily 
overlooked. Orsino was aware of course that he was not 
in need of his parents’ consent for his marriage, but he 
had not been brought up in a way to look upon their ac- 
quiescence as unnecessary. He was deeply attached to 
them both, but especially to his mother who had been his 
staunch friend in his efforts to do something for himself, 
and to whom he naturally looked for sympathy if not for 
actual help. However certain he might be of the ultimate 
result of his marriage, the idea of being married in direct 
opposition to her wishes was so repugnant to him as to 
be almost an insurmountable barrier. He might, indeed, 
and probably would, conceal his engagement for some 
time, but solely with the intention of so preparing the 
evidence in favour of it as to make it immediately accept- 
able to his father and mother when announced. 

It seemed possible that, if he could bring Maria Con- 
suelo to see the matter as he saw it, she might at once 
throw aside her reticence and furnish him with the 
information he so greatly needed. But it would be a 
delicate matter to bring her to that point of view, uncon- 
scious as she must be of her equivocal position. He 
could not go to her and tell her that in order to announce 
their engagement he must be able to tell the world who 
and what she really was. The most he could do would 
be to tell her exactly what papers were necessary for her 
marriage and to prevail upon her to procure them as soon 
as possible, or to hand them to him at once if they were 
already in her possession. But in order to require even 
this much of her, it was necessary to push matters far- 
ther than they had yet gone. He had certainly pledged 
himself to her, and he firmly believed that she considered 
herself bound to him. But beyond that, nothing definite 
had passed. 

They had been interrupted by the entrance of workmen 
asking for orders, and he had thought that Maria Con- 
suelo had seemed anxious to detain the men as long as 
possible. That such a scene could not be immediately 


DON OKSINO. 


819 


renewed where it had been broken off was clear enough, 
but Orsino fancied that she had not wished even to at- 
tempt a renewal of it. He had taken her home in the 
dusk, and she had refused to let him enter the hotel with 
her. She said that she wished to be alone, and he had 
been fain to be satisfied with the pressure of her hand and 
the look in her eyes, which both said much while not 
saying half of what he longed to hear and know. 

He would see her, of course, at the usual hour on the 
following day, and he determined to speak plainly and 
strongly. She could not ask him to prolong such a state 
of uncertainty. Considering how gradual the steps had 
been which had led up to what had taken place on that 
rainy afternoon it was not conceivable, he thought, that 
she would still ask for time to make up her mind. She 
would at least consent to some preliminary agreement 
upon a line of conduct for both to follow. 

But impossible as the other case seemed, Orsino did 
not neglect it. His mind was developing with his char- 
acter and was acquiring the habit of foreseeing difficulties 
in order to forestall them. If Maria Consuelo returned 
suddenly to her original point of view maintaining that 
the promise given to her dying husband was still binding, 
Orsino determined that he would go to Spicca in a last 
resort. Whatever the bond which united them, it was 
clear that Spicca possessed some kind of power over Maria 
Consuelo, and that he was so far acquainted with all the 
circumstances of her previous life as to be eminently 
capable of giving Orsino advice for the future. 

He went to his office on the following morning with 
little inclination for work. It would be more just, per- 
haps, to say that he felt the desire to pursue his usual 
occupation while conscious that his mind was too much 
disturbed by the events of the previous afternoon to con- 
centrate itself upon the details of accounts and plans. 
He found himself committing all sorts of errors of over- 
sight quite unusual with him. Figures seemed to have 
lost their value and plans their meaning. With the ut- 


320 


DON ORSINO. 


most determination lie held himself to his task, not will- 
ing to believe that his judgment and nerve could be so 
disturbed as to render him unfit for any serious business. 
But the result was contemptible as compared with the 
effort. 

Andrea Contini, too, was inclined to take a gloomy 
view of things, contrary to his usual habit. A report 
was spreading to the effect that a certain big contractor 
was on the verge of bankruptcy, a man who had hitherto 
been considered beyond the danger of heavy loss. There 
had been more than one small failure of late, but no one 
had paid much attention to such accidents which were 
generally attributed to personal causes rather than to an 
approaching turn in the tide of speculation. But Contini 
chose to believe that a crisis was not far off. He pos- 
sessed in a high degree that sort of caution which is 
valuable rather in an assistant than in a chief. Orsino 
was little inclined to share his architect’s despondency 
for the present. 

“ You need a change of air,” he said, pushing a heap 
of papers away from him and lighting a cigarette. “ You 
ought to go down to Porto d’Anzio for a few days. You 
have been too long in the heat.” 

“No longer than you, Don Orsino,” answered Contini, 
from his own table. 

“ You are depressed and gloomy. You have worked 
harder than I. You should really go out of town for a 
day or two.” 

“I do not feel the need of it.” 

Contini bent over his table again and a short silence 
followed. Orsino’s mind instantly reverted to Maria 
Consuelo. He felt a violent desire to leave the office and 
go to her at once. There was no reason why he should 
not visit her in the morning if he pleased. At the worst, 
she might refuse to receive him. He was thinking how 
she would look, and wondering whether she would smile 
or meet him with earnest half regretful eyes, when Con- 
tini’ s voice broke into his meditations again. 


DON ORSINO. 


321 


“ You think I am despondent because I have been work- 
ing too long in the beat,” said tbe young man, rising and 
beginning to pace tbe floor before Orsino. “No. I am 
not that kind of man. I am never tired. I can go on for 
ever. But affairs in Borne will not go on for ever. I 
tell you that, Don Orsino. There is trouble in tbe air. 
I wish we had sold everything and could wait. It would 
be much better.” 

“ All this is very vague, Contini.” 

“ It is very clear to me. Matters are going from bad to 
worse. There is no doubt that Bonco has failed.” 

“ Well, and if he has? We are not Bonco. He 
was involved in all sorts of other speculations. If 
he had stuck to land and building he would be as sound 
as ever.” 

“ For another month, perhaps. Do you know why he 
is ruined?” 

“By his own fault, as people always are. He was 
rash.” 

“No rasher than we are. I believe that the game is 
played out. Bonco is bankrupt because the bank with 
which he deals cannot discount any more bills this 
week.” 

“And why not?” 

“ Because the foreign banks will not take any more of 
all this paper that is flying about. Those small failures 
in the summer have produced their effect. Some of the 
paper was in Paris and some in Vienna. It turned out 
worthless, and the foreigners have taken fright. It is 
all a fraud, at best — or something very like it.” 

“ What do you mean? ” 

“Tell me the truth, Don Orsino — have you seen a 
centime of all these millions which every one is dealing 
with? Do you believe they really exist? No. It is all 
paper, paper, and more paper. There is no cash in the 
business.” 

“ But there is land and there are houses, which repre- 
sent the millions substantially.” 

Y 


322 


DON OBSINO. 


“ Substantially ! Yes< — as long as the inflation lasts. 
After that they will represent nothing.” 

“ You are talking nonsense, Contini. Prices may fall, 
and some people will lose, but you cannot destroy real 
estate permanently.” 

“ Its value may be destroyed for ten or twenty years, 
which is practically the same thing when people have no 
other property. Take this block we are building. It 
represents a large sum. Say that in the next six months 
there are half a dozen failures like Ronco’s and that a 
panic sets in. We could then neither sell the houses nor 
let them. What would they represent to us? Nothing. 
Failure — like the failure of everybody else. Do you 
know where the millions really are? You ought to know 
better than most people. They are in Casa Saracinesca 
and in a few other great houses which have not dabbled 
in all this business, and perhaps they are in the pockets 
of a few clever men who have got out of it all in time. 
They are certainly not in the firm of Andrea Contini and 
Company, which will assuredly be bankrupt before the 
winter is out.” 

Contini bit his cigar savagely, thrust his hands into 
his pockets and looked out of the window, turning his 
back on Orsino. The latter watched his companion in 
surprise, not understanding why his dismal forebodings 
should find such sudden and strong expression. 

“I think you exaggerate very much,” said Orsino. 
“ There is always risk in such business as this. But it 
strikes me that the risk was greater when we had less 
capital.” 

“ Capital ! ” exclaimed the architect contemptuously 
and without turning round. “ Can we draw a cheque — a 
plain unadorned cheque and not a draft — for a hundred 
thousand francs to-day? Or shall we be able to draw it 
to-morrow? Capital! We have a lot of brick and 
mortar in our possession, put together more or less sym- 
metrically according to our taste, and practically unpaid 
for. If we manage to sell it in time we shall get the 


DON ORSINO. 


823 


difference between what is paid and what we owe. That 
is our capital. It is problematical, to say the least of it. 
If we realise less than we owe we are bankrupt.” 

He came back suddenly to Orsino' s table as he ceased 
speaking and his face showed that he was really dis- 
turbed. Orsino looked at him steadily for a few seconds. 

“It is not only Bonco's failure that frightens you, 
Contini. There must be something else.” 

“ More of the same kind. There is enough to frighten 
any one.” 

“Ho, there is something else. You have been talking 
with somebody.” 

“ With Del Fence's confidential clerk. Yes — it is quite 
true. I was with him last night.” 

“And what did he say? What you have been telling 
me, I suppose.” 

“ Something much more disagreeable — something you 
would rather not hear.” 

“I wish to hear it.” 

“You should, as a matter of fact.” 

“Go on.” 

“We are completely in Del Fence's hands.” 

“We are in the hands of his bank.” 

“What is the difference? To all intents and purposes 
he is our bank. The proof is that but for him we should 
have failed already.” 

Orsino looked up sharply. 

“Be clear, Contini. Tell me what you mean.” 

“ I mean this. For a month past the bank could not 
have discounted a hundred francs' worth of our paper. 
Del Ferice has taken it all and advanced the money out 
of his private account.” 

“Are you sure of what you are telling me?” Orsino 
asked the question in a low voice, and his brow con- 
tracted. 

“ One can hardly have better authority than the clerk's 
own statement.” 

“And he distinctly told you this, did he?” 


324 


DOK ORSINO. 


“Most distinctly.” 

“He must have had an object in betraying such a con- 
fidence,” said Orsino. “It is not likely that suck a man 
would carelessly tell you or me a secret which is evi- 
dently meant to be kept.” 

He spoke quietly enough, but the tone of his voice was 
changed and betrayed how greatly he was moved by the 
news. Contini began to walk up and down again, but 
did not make any answer to the remark. 

“ How much do we owe the bank? ” Orsino asked sud- 
denly. 

“Eoughly, about six hundred thousand.” 

“ How much of that paper do you think Del Derice has 
taken up himself?” 

“About a quarter, I fancy, from what the clerk told 
me.” 

A long silence followed, during which Orsino tried to 
review the situation in all its various aspects. It was 
clear that Del Derice did not wish Andrea Contini and 
Company to fail and was putting himself to serious in- 
convenience in order to avert the catastrophe. Whether 
he wished, in so doing, to keep Orsino in his power, or 
whether he merely desired to escape the charge of having 
ruined his old enemy’s son ouo of spite, it was hard to 
decide. Orsino passed over that question quickly enough. 
So far as any sense of humiliation was concerned he knew 
very well that his mother would be ready and able to pay 
off all his liabilities at the shortest notice. What Orsino 
felt most deeply was profound disappointment and utter 
disgust at his own folly. It seemed to him that he had 
been played with and flattered into the belief that he was 
a serious man of business, while all along he had been 
pushed and helped by unseen hands. There was nothing 
to prove that Del Derice had not thus deceived him from 
the first ; and, indeed, when he thought of his small be- 
ginnings early in the year and realised the dimensions 
which the business had now assumed, he could not help 
believing that Del Derice had been at the bottom of all 


DON ORSINO. 


325 


his apparent success and that his own earnest and cease- 
less efforts had really had but little to do with the devel- 
opment of his affairs. His vanity suffered terribly under 
the first shock. 

He was bitterly disappointed. During the preceding 
months he had begun to feel himself independent and 
able to stand alone, and he had looked forward in the 
near future to telling his father that he had made a for- 
tune for himself without any man’s help. He had remem- 
bered every word of cold discouragement to which he had 
been forced to listen at the very beginning, and he had 
felt sure of having a success to set against each one of 
those words. He knew that he had not been idle and he 
had fancied that every hour of work had produced its 
permanent result, and left him with something more to 
show. He had seen his mother’s pride in him growing 
day by day with his apparent success, and he had been 
confident of proving to her that she was not half proud 
enough. All that was gone in a moment. He saw, or 
fancied that he saw, nothing but a series of failures 
which had been bolstered up and inflated into seeming 
triumphs by a man whom his father despised and hated 
and whom, as a man, he himself did not respect. The 
disillusionment was complete. 

At first it seemed to him that there was nothing to be 
done but to go directly to Saracinesca and tell the truth 
to his father and mother. Financially, when the wealth 
of the family was taken into consideration there was 
nothing very alarming in the situation. He would borrow 
of his father enough to clear him with Del Ferice and 
would sell the unfinished buildings for what they would 
bring. He might even induce his father to help him in 
finishing the work. There would be no trouble about the 
business question. As for Contini, he should not lose 
by the transaction and permanent occupation could 
doubtless be found for him on one of the estates if he 
chose to accept it. 

He thought of the interview and his vanity dreaded it. 


826 


DON ORSINO. 


Another plan suggested itself to him. On the whole, it 
seemed easier to hear his dependence on Del Ferice than 
to confess himself beaten. There was nothing dishon- 
ourable, nothing which could be called so at least, in 
accepting financial accommodation from a man whose 
business it was to lend money on security. If Del Ferice 
chose to advance sums which his bank would not advance, 
he did it for good reasons of his own and certainly not in 
the intention of losing by it in the end. In case of 
failure Del Ferice would take the buildings for the debt 
and would certainly in that case get them for much less 
than they were worth. Orsino would be no worse off 
than when he had begun, he would frankly confess that 
though he had lost nothing he had not made a fortune, 
and the matter would be at an end. That would be very 
much easier to bear than the humiliation of confessing at 
the present moment that he was in Del Ferice’s power 
and would be bankrupt but for Del Ferice’s personal 
help. And again he repeated to himself that Del Ferice 
was not a man to throw money away without hope of 
recovery with interest. It was inconceivable, too, that 
Ugo should have pushed him so far merely to flatter a 
young man’s vanity. He meant to make use of him, or 
to make money out of his failure. In either case Orsino 
would be his dupe and would not be under any obligation 
to him. Compared with the necessity of acknowledging 
the present state of his affairs to his father, the prospect 
of being made a tool of by Del Ferice was bearable, not 
to say attractive. 

“ What had we better do, Contini? ” he asked at length. 

“ There is nothing to be done but to go on, I suppose, 
until we are ruined, ” replied the architect. “ Even if we 
had the money, we should gain nothing by taking off all 
our bills as they fall due, instead of renewing them.” 

“ But if the bank will not discount any more ” 

“Del Ferice will, in the bank’s name. When he is 
ready for the failure, we shall fail and he will profit by 
our loss,” 


DON ORSINO. 


327 


“Do you think that is what he means to do?” 

Contini looked at Orsino in surprise. 

“ Of course. What did you expect? You do not sup- 
pose that he means to make us a present of that paper, or 
to hold it indefinitely until we can make a good sale.” 

“ And he will ultimately get possession of all the paper 
himself.” 

“Naturally. As the old bills fall due we shall renew 
them with him, practically, and not with the bank. He 
knows what he is about. He probably has some scheme 
for selling the whole block to the government, or to some 
institution, and is sure of his profit beforehand. Our 
failure will give him a profit of twenty-five or thirty per 
cent.” 

Orsino was strangely reassured by his partner’s gloomy 
view. To him every word proved that he was free from 
any personal obligation to Del Ferice and might accept 
the latter’s assistance without the least compunction. 
He did not like to remember that a man of Ugo’s subtle 
intelligence might have something more important in 
view than a profit of a few hundred thousand francs, if 
indeed the sum should amount to that. Orsino’s brow 
cleared and his expression changed. 

“You seem to like the idea,” observed Contini rather 
irritably. 

“I would rather be ruined by Del Ferice than helped 
by him.” 

“ Ruin means so little to you, Don Orsino. It means 
the inheritance of an enormous fortune, a princess for a 
wife and the choice of two or three palaces to live in.” 

“That is one way of putting it,” answered Orsino, 
almost laughing. “ As for yourself, my friend, I do not 
see that your prospects are so very bad. Do you suppose 
that I shall abandon you after having led you into this 
scrape, and after having learned to like you and under- 
stand your talent? You are very much mistaken. We 
have tried this together and failed, but as you rightly say 
I shall not be in the least ruined by the failure. Do you 


328 


DON ORSINO. 


know what will happen? My father will tell me that 
since I have gained some experience I should go and 
manage one of the estates and improve the buildings. 
Then you and I will go together.” 

Contini smiled suddenly and his bright eyes sparkled. 
He was profoundly attached to Orsino, and thought per- 
haps as much of the loss of his companionship as of the 
destruction of his material hopes in the event of a 
liquidation. 

“ If that could be, I should not care what became of 
the business,” he said simply. 

“How long do you think we shall last?” asked Orsino 
after a short pause. 

“ If business grows worse, as I think it will, we shall 
last until the first bill that falls due after the doors and 
windows are put in.” 

“That is precise, at least.” 

“It will probably take us into January, or perhaps 
February.” 

“ But suppose that Del Ferice himself gets into trouble 
between now and then. If he cannot discount any more, 
what will happen?” 

“We shall fail a little sooner. But you need not be 
afraid of that. Del Ferice knows what he is about better 
than we do, better than his confidential clerk, much 
better than most men of business in Borne. If he fails, 
he will fail intentionally and at the right moment.” 

“ And do you not think that there is even a remote pos- 
sibility of an improvement in business, so that nobody 
will fail at all? ” 

“ No, ” answered Contini thoughtfully. “ I do not think 
so. It is a paper system and it will go to pieces.” 

“Why have you not said the same thing before? You 
must have had this opinion a long time.” 

“ I did not believe that Bonco could fail. An accident 
opens the eyes.” 

Orsino had almost decided to let matters go on but he 
found some difficulty in actually making up his mind. In 


DON ORSINO. 


329 


spite of Contini’s assurances lie could not get rid of the 
idea that he was under an obligation to Del Ferice. Once, 
at least, he thought of going directly to Ugo and asking 
for a clear explanation of the whole affair. But Ugo was 
not in town, as he knew, and tne impossibility of going 
at once made it improbable that Orsino would go at all. 
It would not have been a very wise move, for Del Ferice 
could easily deny the story, seeing that the paper was all 
in the bank’s name, and he would probably have visited 
the indiscretion upon the unfortunate clerk. 

In the long silence which followed, Orsino relapsed 
into his former despondency. After all, whether he 
confessed his failure or not, he had undeniably failed and 
been played upon from the first, and he admitted it to 
himself without attempting to spare his vanity, and his 
self-contempt was great and painful. The fact that he 
had grown from a boy to a man during his experience did 
not make it easier to bear such wounds, which are felt 
more keenly by the strong than by the weak when they 
are real. 

As the day wore on the longing to see Maria Consuelo 
grew upon him until he felt that he had never before 
wished to be with her as he wished it now. He had no 
intention of telling her his trouble but he needed the 
assurance of an ever ready sympathy which he so often 
saw in her eyes, and which was always there for him 
when he asked it. When there is love there is reliance, 
whether expressed or not, and where there is reliance, 
be it ever so slender, there is comfort for many ills of 
body, mind and soul. \\ 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Orsino felt suddenly relieved when he had left his office 
in the afternoon. Contini’s gloomy mood was contagious, 
and so long as Orsino was with him it was impossible not 
to share the architect’s view of affairs. Alone, however, 


330 


DON OESINO. 


things did not seem so bad. As a matter of fact it was 
almost impossible for the young man to give up all his 
illusions concerning his own success in one moment, and 
to believe himself the dupe of his own blind vanity in- 
stead of regarding himself as the winner in the fight for 
independence of thought and action. He could not deny 
the facts Contini alleged. He had to admit that he was 
apparently in Del Fence’s power, unless he appealed to 
his own people for assistance. He was driven to ac- 
knowledge that he had made a great mistake. But he 
could not altogether distrust himself and he fancied that 
after all, with a fair share of luck, he might prove a 
match for Ugo on the financier’s own ground. He had 
learned to have confidence in his own powers and judg- 
ment, and as he walked away from the office every mo- 
ment strengthened his determination to struggle on with 
such resources as he might be able to command, so long 
as there should be a possibility of action of any sort. 
He felt, too, that more depended upon his success than 
the mere satisfaction of his vanity. If he failed, he 
might lose Maria Consuelo as well as his self-respect. 
He had that sensation, familiar enough to many young 
men when extremely in love, that in order to be loved in 
return one must succeed, and that a single failure en- 
dangers the stability of a passion which, if it be honest, 
has nothing to do with failure or success. At Orsino’s 
age, and with his temper, it is hard to believe that pity 
is more closely akin to love than admiration. 

Gradually the conviction reasserted itself that he could 
fight his way through unaided, and his spirits rose as he 
approached the more crowded quarters of the city on his 
way to the hotel where Maria Consuelo was stopping. 
Not even the yells of the newsboys affected him, as they 
announced the failure of the great contractor Ronco and 
offered, in a second edition, a complete account of the 
bankruptcy. It struck him indeed that before long the 
same brazen voices might be screaming out the news that 
Andrea Contini and Company had come to grief. But 


DON ORSINO. 


331 


the idea lent a sense of danger to the situation which 
Orsino did not find unpleasant. The greater the difficulty 
the greater the merit in overcoming it, and the greater 
therefore the admiration he should get from the woman 
he loved. His position was certainly an odd one, and 
many men would not have felt the excitement which he 
experienced. The financial side of the question was 
strangely indifferent to him, who knew himself backed 
by the great fortune of his family, and believed that his 
ultimate loss could only be the small sum with which he 
had begun his operations. But the moral risk seemed 
enormous and grew in importance as he thought of it. 

He found Maria Consuelo looking pale and weary. She 
evidently had no intention of going out that day, for she 
wore a morning gown and was established upon a lounge 
with books and flowers beside her as though she did not 
mean to move. She was not reading, however. Orsino 
was startled by the sadness in her face. 

She looked fixedly into his eyes as she gave him her 
hand, and he sat down beside her. 

“ I am glad you are come, ” she said at last, in a low 
voice. “I have been hoping all day that you would 
come early.” 

“ I would have come this morning if I had dared, ” an- 
swered Orsino. 

She looked at him again, and smiled faintly. 

“ I have a great deal to say to you, ” she began. Then 
she hesitated as though uncertain where to begin. 

“ And I ” Orsino tried to take her hand, but she 

withdrew it. 

“Yes, but do not say it. At least, not now.” 

“Why not, dear one? May I not tell you how I love 
you? What is it, love? You are so sad to-day. Has 
anything happened? ” 

His voice grew soft and tender as he spoke, bending to 
her ear. She pushed him gently back. 

“You know what has happened,” she answered. “It 
is no wonder that I am sad.” 


332 


DON ORSINO. 


“I do not understand you, dear. Tell me what it is.” 

“ I told you too much yesterday ” 

“ Too much?” 

“Far too much.” 

“Are you going to unsay it?” 

“How can I?” 

She turned her face away and her fingers played ner- 
vously with her laces. 

“No — indeed, neither of us can unsay such words,” 
said Orsino. “ But I do not understand you yet, darling. 
You must tell me what you mean to-day.” 

“You know it all. It is because you will not under- 
stand ” 

Orsino’s face changed and his voice took another tone 
when he spoke. 

“Are you playing with me, Consuelo?” he asked 
gravely. 

She started slightly and grew paler than before. 

“You are not kind,” she said. “I am suffering very 
much. Do not make it harder.” 

“I am suffering, too. You mean me to understand 
that you regret what happened yesterday and that you 
wish to take back your words, that whether you love me 
or not, you mean to act and appear as though you did 
not, and that I am to behave as though nothing had hap- 
pened. Do you think that would be easy? And do you 
think I do not suffer at the mere idea of it? ” 

“ Since it must be ” 

“There is no must,” answered Orsino with energy. 
“ You would ruin your life and mine for the mere shadow 
of a memory which you choose to take for a binding 
promise. I will not let you do it.” 

“You will not?” She looked at him quickly with an 
expression of resistance. 

“No — I will not,” he repeated. “We have too much 
at stake. You shall not lose all for both of us.” 

“You are wrong, dear one,” she said, with sudden soft- 
ness. “ If you love me, you should believe me and trust 
me. I can give you nothing but unhappiness ” 


DON ORSINO. 


333 


“ You have given me the only happiness I ever knew — 
and you ask me to believe that you could make me un- 
happy in any way except by not loving me ! Consuelo — 
my darling — are you out of your senses?” 

“No. I am too much in them. I wish I were not. If 
I were mad I should ” 

“What?” 

“Never mind. I will not even say it. No — do not try 
to take my hand, for I will not give it to you. Listen, 
Orsino — be reasonable, listen to me ” 

“I will try and listen.” 

But Maria Consuelo did not speak at once. Possibly 
she was trying to collect her thoughts. 

“What have you to say, dearest?” asked Orsino at 
length. “I will try to understand.” 

“ You must understand. I will make it all clear to you 
and then you will see it as I do.” 

“ And then — what? ” 

“ And then we must part, ” she said in a low voice. 

Orsino said nothing, but shook his head incredulously. 

“ Yes,” repeated Maria Consuelo, “ we must not see each 
other any more after this. It has been all my fault. I 
shall leave Borne and not come back again. It will be 
best for you and I will make it best for me.” 

“You talk very easily of parting.” 

“Do I? Every word is a wound. Do I look as though 
I were indifferent?” 

Orsino glanced at her pale face and tearful eyes. 

“No, dear,” he said softly. 

“Then do not call me heartless. I have more heart 
than you think — and it is breaking. And do not say 
that I do not love you. I love you better than you know 
— better than you will be loved again when you are older 
— and happier, perhaps. Yes, I know what you want to 
say. Well, dear — you love me, too. Yes, I know it. Let 
there be no unkind words and no doubts between us to- 
day. I think it is our last day together.” 

“For God’s sake, Consuelo ” 


334 


DON ORSINO. 


“We shall see. Now let me speak — if I can. There 
are three reasons why you and I should not marry. I 
have thought of them through all last night and all to- 
day, and I know them. The first is my solemn vow to 
the dying man who loved me so well and who asked 
nothing hut that — whose wife I never was, but whose 
name I bear. Think me mad, superstitious — what you 
will — I cannot break that promise. It was almost an 
oath not to love, and if it was I have broken it. But the 
rest I can keep, and will. The next reason is that I am 
older than you. I might forget that, I have forgotten 
it more than once, but the time will come soon when 
you will remember it.” 

Orsino made an angry gesture and would have spoken, 
but she checked him. 

“ Pass that over, since we are both young. The third 
reason is harder to tell and no power on earth can ex- 
plain it away. I am no match for you in birth, Or- 
sino ” 

The young man interrupted her now, and fiercely. 

“ Do you dare to think that I care what your birth may 
be?” he asked. 

“ There are those who do care, even if you do not, dear 
one,” she answered quietly. 

“And what is their caring to you or me?” 

“ It is not so small a matter as you think. I am not 
talking of a mere difference in rank. It is worse than 
that. I do not really know who I am. Do you under- 
stand? I do not know who my mother was nor whether 
she is alive or dead, and before I w^as married I did not 
bear my father’s name.” 

“ But you know your father — you know his name at 
least?” 

“Yes.” 

“Who is he?” Orsino could hardly pronounce the 
words of the question. 

“Count Spicca.” 

Maria Consuelo spoke quietly, but her fingers trembled 


dox cmsnsro. 


385 


nervously and she watched Orsino’s face in evident dis- 
tress and anxiety. As for Orsino, he was almost dumb 
with amazement. 

“ Spicca ! Spicca your father ! ” he repeated indis- 
tinctly. 

In all his many speculations as to the tie which existed 
between Maria Consuelo and the old duellist, he had 
never thought of this one. 

“Then you never suspected it?” asked Maria Con- 
suelo. 

“How should I? And your own father killed your 
husband — good Heavens ! What a story ! ” 

“ You know now. You see for yourself how impossible 
it is that I should marry you.” 

In his excitement Orsino had risen and was pacing the 
room. He scarcely heard her last words, and did not say 
anything in reply. Maria Consuelo lay quite still upon 
the lounge, her hands clasped tightly together and strain- 
ing upon each other. 

“You see it all now,” she said again. This time his 
attention was arrested and he stopped before her. 

“Yes. I see what you mean. But I do not see it as 
you see it. I do not see that any of these things you 
have told me need hinder our marriage.” 

Maria Consuelo did not move, but her expression 
changed. The light stole slowly into her face and lin- 
gered there, not driving away the sadness but illuminat- 
ing it. 

“ And would you have the courage, in spite of your 
family and of society, to marry me, a woman practically 
nameless, older than yourself ” 

“I not only would, but I will,” answered Orsino. 

“You cannot — but I thank you, dear,” said Maria 
Consuelo. 

He was standing close beside her. She took his hand 
and tenderly touched it with her lips. He started and 
drew it back, for no woman had ever kissed his hand. 

“You must not do that! ” he exclaimed, instinctively. 


336 


DON ORSINO. 


“ And why not, if I please? ” she asked, raising her 
eyebrows with a little affectionate laugh. 

“ I am not good enough to kiss your hand, darling — still 
less to let you kiss mine. Never mind — we were talk- 
ing — where were we?” 

“ You were saying ” But he interrupted her. 

“ What does it matter, when I love you so, and you 
love me?” he asked passionately. 

He knelt beside her as she lay on the lounge and took 
her hands, holding them and drawing her towards him. 
She resisted and turned her face away. 

“No — no! It matters too much — let me go, it only 
makes it worse ! ” 

“Makes what worse?” 

“ Parting ” 

“We will not part. I will not let you go! ” 

But still she struggled with her hands and he, fearing 
to hurt them in his grasp, let them slip away with a lin- 
gering touch. 

“Get up,” she said. “Sit here, beside me — a little 
further — there. We can talk better so.” 

“ I cannot talk at all ” 

“Without holding my hands?” 

“Why should I not?” 

“ Because I ask you. Please, dear ” 

She drew back on the lounge, raised herself a little and 
turned her face to him. Again, as his eyes met hers, he 
leaned forward quickly, as though he would leave his 
seat. But she checked him, by an imperative glance and 
a gesture. He was unreasonable and had no right to be 
annoyed, but something in her manner chilled him and 
pained him in a way he could not have explained. When 
he spoke there was a shade of change in the tone of his 
voice. 

“ The things you have told me do not influence me in 
the least,” he said with more calmness than he had yet 
shown. “What you believe to be the most important 
reason is no reason at all to me. You are Count Spicca’s 


DON ORSINO. 


337 


daughter. He is an old friend of my father — not that it 
matters very materially, but it may make everything 
easier. I will go to him to-day and tell him that I wish 
to marry you ” 

“ You will not do that! ” exclaimed Maria Consuelo in 
a tone of alarm. 

“ Yes, I will. Why not? Do you know what he once 
said to me? He told me he wished we might take a fancy 
to each other, because, as he expressed it, we should be 
so well matched. ” 

“Did he say that?” asked Maria Consuelo gravely. 

“ That or something to the same effect. Are you sur- 
prised? What surprises me is that I should never have 
guessed the relation between you. Now your father is a 
very honourable man. What he said meant something, 
and when he said it he meant that our marriage would 
seem natural to him and to everybody. I will go and 
talk to him. So much for your great reason. As for the 
second you gave, it is absurd. We are of the same age, 
to all intents and purposes.” 

“I am not twenty-three years old.” 

“ And I am not quite two and twenty. Is that a differ- 
ence? So much for that. Take the third, which you put 
first. Seriously, do you think that any intelligent being 
would consider you bound by such a promise? Do you 
mean to say that a young girl — you were nothing more — 
has a right to throw away her life out of sentiment by 
making a promise of that kind? And to whom? To a 
man who is not her husband, and never can be, because 
he is dying. To a man just not indifferent to her, to a 
man ” 

Maria Consuelo raised herself and looked full at Orsino. 
Her face was extremely pale and her eyes were suddenly 
dark and gleamed. 

“ Don Orsino, you have no right to talk to me in that 
way. I loved him — no one knows how I loved him ! ” 

There was no mistaking the tone and the look. Orsino 
felt again and more strongly, the chill and the pain he 

z 


338 


DON ORSINO. 


had felt before. He was silent for a moment. Maria 
Consuelo looked at him a second longer, and then let her 
head fall back upon the cushion. But the expression 
which had come into her face did not change at once. 

“ Forgive me,” said Orsino after a pause. “I had not 
quite understood. The only imaginable reason which 
could make our marriage impossible would be that. If 
you loved him so well — if you loved him in such a way 
as to prevent you from loving me as I love you — why 
then, you may be right after all.” 

In the silence which followed, he turned his face away 
and gazed at the window. He had spoken quietly enough 
and his expression, strange to say, was calm and thought- 
ful. It is not always easy for a woman to understand a 
man,|for men soon learn to conceal what hurts them but 
take little trouble to hide their happiness, if they are 
honeskj A man more often betrays himself by a look of 
pleasure than by an expression of disappointment. It was 
thought manly to bear pain in silence long before it 
became fashionable to seem indifferent to joy. 

Orsino’s manner displeased Maria Consuelo. It was 
too quiet and cold and she thought he cared less than he 
really did. 

“ You say nothing,” he said at last. 

“ What shall I say? You speak of something prevent- 
ing me from loving you as you love me. How can I tell 
how much you love me? ” 

“Do you not see it? Do you not feel it?” Orsino’s 
tone warmed again as 'he turned towards her, but he was 
conscious of an effort. Deeply as he loved her, it was 
not natural for him to speak passionately just at that 
moment, but he knew she expected it and he did his best. 
She was disappointed. 

“Not always,” she answered with a little sigh. 

“You do not always believe that I love you?” 

“I did not say that. I am not always sure that you 
love me as much as you think you do — you imagine a 
great deal.” 


DON ORSINO. 


339 


“I did not know it.” 

“Yes — sometimes. I am sure it is so.” 

“ And how am I to prove that you are wrong and I am 
right?” 

“How should I know? Perhaps time will show.” 

“ Time is too slow for me. There must be some other 
way.” 

“Find it then,” said Maria Consuelo, smiling rather 
sadly. 

“I will.” 

He meant what he said, but the difficulty of the prob- 
lem perplexed him and there was not enough conviction 
in his voice. He was thinking rather of the matter itself 
than of what he said. Maria Consuelo fanned herself 
slowly and stared at the wall. 

“If you doubt so much,” said Orsino at last, “I have 
the right to doubt a little too. If you loved me well 
enough you would promise to marry me. You do not.” 

There was a short pause. At last Maria Consuelo 
closed her fan, looked at it and spoke. 

“You say my reason is not good. Must I go all over 
it again? It seems a good one to me. Is it incredible 
to you that a woman should love twice? Such things 
have happened before. Is it incredible to you that, lov- 
ing one person, a woman should respect the memory of 
another and a solemn promise given to that other? I 
should respect myself less if I did not. That it is all 
my fault I will admit, if you like — that I should never 
have received you as I did — I grant it all — that I was 
weak yesterday, that I am weak to-day, that I should be 
weak to-morrow if I let this go on. I am sorry. You 
can take a little of the blame if you are generous enough, 
or vain enough. You have tried hard to make me love 
you and you have succeeded, for I love you very much. 
So much the worse for me. It must end now.” 

“You do not think of me, when you say that.” 

“ Perhaps I think more of you than you know — or will 
understand. I am older than you — do not interrupt me ! 


340 


DON ORSINO. 


I am older, for a woman is always older than a man 
in some things. I know what will happen, what will 
certainly happen in time if we do not part. You will 
grow jealous of a shadow and I shall never be able to tell 
you that this same shadow is not dear to me. You will 
come to hate what I have loved and love still, though it 
does not prevent me from loving you too ” 

“ But less well, ” said Orsino rather harshly. 

“You would believe that, at least, and the thought 
would always be between us.” 

“ If you loved me as much, you would not hesitate. 
You would marry me living, as you married him dead.” 

“ If there were no other reason against it ” She 

stopped. 

“There is no other reason,” said Orsino insisting. 

Maria Consuelo shook her head but said nothing and a 
long silence followed. Orsino sat still, watching her and 
wondering what was passing in her mind. It seemed to 
him, and perhaps rightly, that if she were really in ear- 
nest and loved him with all her heart, the reasons she 
gave for a separation were far from sufficient. He had 
not even much faith in her present obstinacy and he did 
not believe that she would really go away. It was incred- 
ible that any woman could be so capricious as she chose 
to be. Her calmness, or what appeared to him her calm- 
ness, made it even less probable, he thought, that she 
meant to part from him. But the thought alone was 
enough to disturb him seriously. He had suffered a 
severe shock with outward composure but not without 
inward suffering, followed naturally enough by something 
like angry resentment. As he viewed the situation, 
Maria Consuelo had alternately drawn him on and dis- 
appointed him from the very beginning; she had taken 
delight in forcing him to speak out his love, only to chill 
him the next moment, or the next day, with the certainty 
that she did not love him sincerely. Just then he would 
have preferred not to put into words the thoughts of her 
that crossed his mind. They would have expressed a 


DON ORSINO. 


341 


disbelief in her character which he did not really feel 
and an opinion of his own judgment which he would rather 
not have accepted. 

He even went so far, in his anger, as to imagine what 
would happen if he suddenly rose to go. She would put 
on that sad look of hers and give him her hand coldly. 
Then just as he reached the door she would call him back, 
only to send him away again. He would find on the fol- 
lowing day that she had not left town after all, or, at most, 
that she had gone to Florence for a day or two, while the 
workmen completed the furnishing of her apartment. 
Then she would come back and would meet him just as 
though there had never been anything between them. 

The anticipation was so painful to him that he wished 
to have it realised and over as soon as possible, and he 
looked at her again before rising from his seat. He could 
hardly believe that she was the same woman who had 
stood with him, watching the thunderstorm, on the pre- 
vious afternoon. 

He saw that she was pale, but she was not facing the 
light and the expression of her face was not distinctly 
visible. On the whole, he fancied that her look was 
one of indifference. Her hands lay idly upon her fan and 
by the drooping of her lids she seemed to be looking at 
them. The full, curved lips were closed, but not drawn 
in as though in pain, nor pouting as though in displeas- 
ure. She appeared to be singularly calm. After hesi- 
tating another moment Orsino rose to his feet. He had 
made up his mind what to say, for it was little enough, 
but his voice trembled a little. 

“ Good-bye, Madame.” 

Maria Consuelo started slightly and looked up, as 
though to see whether he really meant to go at that 
moment. She had no idea that he really thought of tak- 
ing her at her word and parting then and there. She did 
not realise how true it was that she was much older than 
he and she had never believed him to be as impulsive as 
he sometimes seemed. 


342 


DON OKSINO. 


“ Do not go yet,” she said, instinctively. 

“ Since you say that we must part ” he stopped, as 

though leaving her to finish the sentence in imagination. 

A frightened look passed quickly over Maria Con- 
suelo’s face. She made as though she would have taken 
his hand, then drew back her own and bit her lip, not 
angrily but as though she were controlling something. 

“ Since you insist upon our parting/’ Orsino said, after 
a short, strained silence, “ it is better that it should be 
got over at once.” In spite of himself his voice was still 
unsteady. 

“ I did not — no — yes, it is better so.” 

“ Then good-bye, Madame.” 

It was impossible for her to understand all that had 
passed in his mind while he had sat beside her, after the 
previous conversation had ended. His abruptness and 
^oldness were incomprehensible to her. 

“ Good-bye, then — Orsino.” 

Dor a moment her eyes rested on his. It was the sad 
look he had anticipated, and she put out her hand now. 
Surely, he thought, if she loved him she would not let 
him go so easily. He took her fingers and would have 
raised them to his lips when they suddenly closed on 
his, not with the passionate, loving pressure of yester- 
day, but firmly and quietly, as though they would not be 
disobeyed, guiding him again to his seat close beside her. 
He sat down. 

“ Good-bye, then, Orsino,” she repeated, not yet relin- 
quishing her hold. “ Good-bye, dear, since it must be 
good-bye — but not good-bye as you said it. You shall 
not go until you can say it differently.” 

She let him go now and changed her own position. 
Her feet slipped to the ground and she leaned with her 
elbow upon the head of the lounge, resting her cheek 
against her hand. She was nearer to him now than be- 
fore and their eyes met as they faced each other. She 
had certainly not chosen her attitude with any second 
thought of her own appearance, but as Orsino looked into 


DON ORSINO. 


343 


her face he saw again clearly all the beauties that he had 
so long admired, the passionate eyes, the full, firm mouth, 
the broad brow, the luminous white skin — all beauties in 
themselves though not, together, making real beauty in 
her case. And beyond these he saw and felt over them 
all and through them all the charm that fascinated him, 
appealing as it were to him in particular of all men as it 
could not appeal to another. He was still angry, dis- 
turbed out of his natural self and almost out of his pas- 
sion, but he felt none the less that Maria Consuelo could 
hold him if she pleased, as long as a shadow of affection 
for her remained in him, and perhaps longer. When she 
spoke, he knew what she meant, and he did not interrupt 
her nor attempt to answer. 

“I have meant all I have said to-day,” she continued. 
“Do not think it is easy for me to say more. I would 
give all I have to give to take back yesterday, for yester- 
day was my great mistake. I am only a woman and you 
will forgive me. I do what I am doing now, for your 
sake — God knows it is not for mine. God knows how 
hard it is for me to part from you. I am in earnest, you 
see. You believe me now.” 

Her voice was steady but the tears were already 
welling over. 

“Yes, dear, T believe you,” Orsino answered softly. 
Women’s tears are a great solvent of man’s ill temper. 

“As for this being right and best, this parting, you 
will see it as I do sooner or later. But you do believe 
that I love you, dearly, tenderly, very — well, no matter 
how — you believe it ? ” 

“ I believe it ” 

“ Then say ‘ good-bye, Consuelo ’ — and kiss me once — 
for what might have been.” 

Orsino half rose, bent down and kissed her cheek. 

“ Good-bye, Consuelo,” he said, almost whispering the 
words into her ear. In his heart he did not think she 
meant it. He still expected that she would call him 
back. 


344 


DON ORSINO. 


“ It is good-bye, dear — believe it — remember it ! ” Her 
voice shook a little now. 

“ Good-bye, Consuelo,” he repeated. 

With a loving look that meant no good-bye he drew 
back and went to the door. He laid his hand on the 
handle and paused. She did not speak. Then he looked 
at her again. Her head had fallen back against a cush- 
ion and her eyes were half closed. He waited a second 
and a keen pain shot through him. Perhaps she was in 
earnest after all. In an instant he had recrossed the 
room and was on his knees beside her trying to take her 
hands. 

“ Consuelo — darling — you do not really mean it ! You 
cannot, you will not ” 

He covered her hands with kisses and pressed them to 
his heart. For a few moments she made no movement, 
but her eyelids quivered. Then she sprang to her feet, 
pushing him back violently as he rose with her, and 
turning her face from him. 

“ Go — go ! ” she cried wildly. “ Go — let me never see 
you again — never, never ! ” 

Before he could stop her, she had passed him with a 
rush like a swallow on the wing and was gone from the 
room. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Orsino was not in an enviable frame of mind when he 
left the hotel. It is easier to bear suffering when one 
clearly understands all its causes, and distinguishes just 
how great a part of it is inevitable and how great a part 
may be avoided or mitigated. In the present case there 
was much in the situation which it passed his power to 
analyse or comprehend. He still possessed the taste for 
discovering motives in the actions of others as well as in 
his own, but many months of a busy life had dulled the 


DON ORSINO. 


345 


edge of the artificial logic in which he had formerly de- 
lighted, while greatly sharpening his practical wit. Arti- 
ficial analysis supplies from the imagination the details 
lacking in facts, but common sense needs something more 
tangible upon which to work. Orsino felt that the chief 
circumstance which had determined Maria Consuelo’s 
conduct had escaped him, and he sought in vain to de- 
tect it. 

He rejected the supposition that she was acting upon 
a caprice, that she had yesterday believed it possible to 
marry him, while a change of humour made marriage 
seem out of the question to-day. She was as capricious as 
most women, perhaps, but not enough so for that. Be- 
sides, she had been really consistent. Not even yesterday 
had she been shaken for a moment in her resolution not 
to be Orsino’s wife. To-day had confirmed yesterday 
therefore. However Orsino might have still doubted her 
intention when he had gone to her side for the last time, 
her behaviour then and her final words had been unmis- 
takable. She meant to leave Borne at once. 

Yet the reasons she had given him for her conduct 
were not sufficient in his eyes. The difference of age 
was so small that it could safely be disregarded. Her 
promise to the dying Aranjuez was an engagement, he 
thought, by which no person of sense should expect her 
to abide. As for the question of her birth, he relied on 
that speech of Spicca’s which he so well remembered. 
Spicca might have spoken the words thoughtlessly, it 
was true, and believing that Orsino would never, under 
any circumstances whatever, think seriously of marrying 
Maria Consuelo. But Spicca was not a man who often 
spoke carelessly, and what he said generally meant at 
least as much as it appeared to mean. 

It was doubtless true that Maria Consuelo was ignorant 
of her mother’s name. Nevertheless, it was quite possi- 
ble that her mother had been Spicca’ s wife. Spicca’ s life 
was said to be full of strange events not generally known. 
But though his daughter might, and doubtless did^ believe 


346 


DON ORSINO. 


herself a nameless child, and, as such, no match for the 
heir of the Saracinesca, Orsino could not see why she 
should have insisted upon a parting so sudden, so pain- 
ful and so premature. She knew as much yesterday and 
had known it all along. Why, if she possessed such 
strength of character, had she allowed matters to go so 
far when she could easily have interrupted the course of 
events at an earlier period ? He did not admit that she 
perhaps loved him so much as to have been carried away 
by her passion until she found herself on the point of 
doing him an injury by marrying him, and that her love 
was strong enough to induce her to sacrifice herself at 
the critical moment. Though he loved her much he did 
not believe her to be heroic in any way. On the con- 
trary, he said to himself that if she were sincere, and if 
her love were at all like his own, she would let no obsta- 
cle stand in the way of it. To him, the test of love must 
be its utter recklessness. He could not believe that a 
still better test may be, and is, the constant forethought 
for the object of love, and the determination to protect 
that object from all danger in the present and from all 
suffering in the future, no matter at what cost. 

Perhaps it is not easy to believe that recklessness is 
a manifestation of the second degree of passion, while the 
highest shows itself in painful sacrifice. Yet the most 
daring act of chivalry never called for half the bravery 
shown by many a martyr at the stake, and if courage be 
a measure of true passion, the passion which will face 
life-long suffering to save its object from unhappiness or 
degradation is greater than the passion which, for the 
sake of possessing its object, drags it into danger and the 
risk of ruin. It may be that all this is untrue, and that 
the action of these two imaginary individuals, the one 
sacrificing himself, the other endangering the loved one, 
is dependent upon the balance of the animal, intellectual 
and moral elements in each. We do not know much 
about the causes of what we feel, in spite of modern 
analysis ; but the heart rarely deceives us, when we can 


BON ORSINO. 


347 


see the truth for ourselves, into bestowing the more 
praise upon the less brave of two deeds. But we do not 
often see the truth as it is. We know little of the lives 
of others, but we are apt to think that other people 
understand our own very well, including our good deeds 
if we have done any, and we expect full measure of 
credit for these, and the utmost allowance of charity for 
our sins. In other words we desire our neighbour to 
combine a power of forgiveness almost divine with a 
capacity for flattery more than parasitic. That is why 
we are not easily satisfied with our acquaintances and 
that is why our friends do not always turn out to be 
truthful persons. We ask too much for the low price we 
offer, and if we insist we get the imitation. 

Orsino loved Maria Consuelo with all his heart, as 
much as a young man of little more than one and twenty 
can love the first woman to whom he is seriously attached. 
There was nothing heroic in the passion, perhaps, noth- 
ing which could ultimately lead to great results. But it 
was a strong love, nevertheless, with much of devotion in 
it and some latent violence. If he did not marry Maria 
Consuelo, it was not likely that he would ever love again 
in exactly the same way. His next love would be either 
far better or far worse, far nobler or far baser — perhaps 
a little less human in either case. 

He walked slowly away from the hotel, unconscious of 
the people in the street and not thinking of the direction 
he took. His brain was in a whirl and his thoughts 
seemed to revolve round some central point upon which 
they could not concentrate themselves even for a second. 
The only thing of which he was sure was that Maria 
Consuelo had taken herself from him suddenly and al- 
together, leaving him with a sense of loneliness which 
he had not known before. He had gone to her in con- 
siderable distress about his affairs, with the certainty of 
finding sympathy and perhaps advice. He came away, 
as some men have returned from a grave accident, appar- 
ently unscathed it may be, but temporarily deprived of 


348 


DON ORSINO. 


some one sense, of sight, or hearing, or touch. He was 
not sure that he was awake, and his troubled reflexions 
came back by the same unvarying round to the point 
he had reached the first time — if Maria Consuelo really 
loved him, she would not let such obstacles as she spoke 
of hinder her union with him. 

For a time Orsino was not conscious of any impulse to 
act. Gradually, however, his real nature asserted itself, 
and he remembered how he had told her not long ago 
that if she went away he would follow her, and how he 
had said that the world was small and that he would 
soon find her again. It would undoubtedly be a simple 
matter to accompany her, if she left Eome. He could 
easily ascertain the hour of her intended departure and 
that alone would tell him the direction she had chosen. 
When she found that she had not escaped him she would 
very probably give up the attempt and come back, her 
humour would change and his own eloquence would do 
the rest. 

He stopped in his walk, looked at his watch and 
glanced about him. He was at some distance from the 
hotel and it was growing dusk, for the days were already 
short. If Maria Consuelo really meant to leave Eome 
precipitately, she might go by the evening train to Paris 
and in that case the people of the hotel would have been 
informed of her intended departure. 

Orsino only admitted the possibility of her actually 
going away while believing in his heart that she would 
remain. He slowly retraced his steps, and it was seven 
o’clock before he asked the hotel porter by what train 
Madame d’Aranjuez was leaving. The porter did not 
know whether the lady was going north or south, but he 
called another man, who went in search of a third, who 
disappeared for some time. 

“Is it sure that Madame d’Aranjuez goes to-night?” 
asked Orsino trying to look indifferent. 

“ Quite sure. Her rooms will be free to-morrow.” 

Orsino turned away and slowly paced up and down 


DON ORSINO. 


349 


the marble pavement between the tall plants, waiting 
for the messenger to come back. 

“Madame d’Aranjuez leaves at nine forty-five,” said 
the man, suddenly reappearing. 

Orsino hesitated a moment, and then made up his 
mind. 

“ Ask Madame if she will receive me for a moment,” 
he said, producing a card. 

The servant went away and again Orsino walked back- 
wards and forwards, pale now and very nervous. She 
was really going, and was going north — probably to 
Paris. 

“Madame regrets infinitely that she is not able to 
receive the Signor Prince,” said the man in black at 
Orsino’s elbow. “ She is making her preparations for 
the journey.” 

“ Show me where I can write a note,” said Orsino, who 
had expected the answer. 

He was shown into the reading-room and writing 
materials were set before him. He hurriedly wrote a 
few words to Maria Consuelo, without form of address 
and without signature. 

“ I will not let you go without me. If you will not 
see me, I will be in the train, and I will not leave you, 
wherever you go. I am in earnest.” 

He looked at the sheet of note-paper and wondered 
that he should find nothing more to say. But he had said 
all he meant, and sealing the little note he sent it up to 
Maria Consuelo with a request for an immediate answer. 
Just then the dinner bell of the hotel was rung. The 
reading-room was deserted. He waited five minutes, then 
ten, nervously turning over the newspapers and reviews 
on the long table, but quite unable to read even the 
printed titles. He rang and asked if there had been no 
answer to his note. The man was the same whom he 
had sent before. He said the note had been received at 
the door by the maid who had said that Madame d’Aran- 
juez would ring when her answer was ready. Orsino 


350 


DON OKSINO. 


dismissed the servant and waited again. It crossed his 
mind that the maid might have pocketed the note and 
said nothing about it, for reasons of her own. He had 
almost determined to go upstairs and boldly enter the 
sitting-room, when the door opposite to him opened and 
Maria Consuelo herself appeared. 

She was dressed in a dark close-fitting travelling cos- 
tume, but she wore no hat. Her face was quite colourless 
and looked if possible even more unnaturally pale by con- 
trast with her bright auburn hair. She shut the door 
behind her and stood still, facing Orsino in the glare of 
the electric lights. 

“ I did not mean to see you again,” she said, slowly. 
“ You have forced me to it.” 

Orsino made a step forward and tried to take her hand, 
but she drew back. The slight uncertainty often visible 
in the direction of her glance had altogether disappeared 
and her eyes met Orsino’s directly and fearlessly. 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ I have forced you to it. I know 
it, and you cannot reproach me if I have. I will not 
leave you. I am going with you wherever you go.” 

He spoke calmly, considering the great emotion he felt, 
and there was a quiet determination in his words and 
tone which told how much he was in earnest. Maria Con- 
suelo half believed that she could dominate him by sheer 
force of will, and she would not give up the idea, even 
now. 

“ You will not go with me, you will not even attempt 
it,” she said. 

It would have been difficult to guess from her face at 
that moment that she loved him. Her face was pale and 
the expression was almost hard. She held her head high 
as though she were looking down at him, though he 
towered above her from his shoulders. 

“You do not understand me,” he answered, quietly. 
“When I say that I will go with you, I mean that I will go.” 

“ Is this a trial of strength ? ” she asked after a mo- 
menta pause. 


DON ORSINO. 


351 


“If it is, I am not conscious of it. It costs me no 
effort to go — it would cost me much to stay behind — too 
much.” 

He stood quite still before her, looking steadily into 
her eyes. There was a short silence, and then she sud- 
denly looked down, moved and turned away, beginning to 
walk slowly about. The room was large, and he paced the 
floor beside her, looking down at her bent head. 

“ Will you stay if I ask you to ? ” 

The question came in a lower and softer tone than she 
had used before. 

“ I will go with you,” answered Orsino as firmly as ever. 

“Will you do nothing for my asking ? ” 

“ I will do anything but that.” 

“ But that is all I ask.” 

“You are asking the impossible.” 

“ There are many reasons why you should not come with 
me. Have you thought of them all ? ” 

“ ISTo.” 

“You should. You ought to know, without being told 
by me, that you would be doing me a great injustice and 
a great injury in following me. You ought to know what 
the world will say of it. Bemember that I am alone.” 

“ I will marry you.” 

“I have told you that it is impossible — no, do not 
answer me ! I will not go over all that again. I am 
going away to-night. That is the principal thing — the 
only thing that concerns you. Of course, if you choose, 
you can get into the same train and pursue me to the end 
of the world. I cannot prevent you. I thought I could, 
but I was mistaken. I am alone. Bemember that, Or- 
sino. You know as well as I what will be said — and the 
fact is sure to be known.” 

“ People will say that I am following you ” 

“They will say that we are gone together, for every 
one will have reason to say it. Do you suppose that 
nobody is aware of our — our intimacy during the last 
month ? ” 


352 


DOK ORSINO. 


“ Why not say our love ? ” 

“ Because I hope no one knows of that — well, if they 
do — Orsino, be kind ! Let me go alone — as a man of 
honour, do not injure me by leaving Borne with me, nor 
by following me when I am gone ! ” 

She stopped and looked up into his face with an im- 
ploring glance. To tell the truth, Orsino had not fore- 
seen that she might appeal to his honour, alleging the 
danger to her reputation. He bit his lip and avoided 
her eyes. It was hard to yield, and to yield so quickly, 
as it seemed to him. 

“ How long will you stay away ? ” he asked in a con- 
strained voice. 

“ I shall not come back at all.” 

He wondered at the firmness of her tone and manner. 
Whatever the real ground of her resolution might be, the 
resolution itself had gained strength since they had parted 
little more than an hour earlier. The belief suddenly 
grew upon him again that she did not love him. 

“ Why are you going at all ? ” he asked abruptly. “ If 
you loved me at all, you would stay.” 

She drew a sharp breath and clasped her hands ner- 
vously together. 

“ I should stay if I loved you less. But I have told 
you — I will not go over it all again. This must end — 
this saying good-bye ! It is easier to end it at once.” 

“ Easier for you ” 

“You do not know what you are saying. You will 
know some day. If you can bear this, I cannot.” 

“ Then stay — if you love me, as you say you do.” 

“ As I say I do ! ” 

Her eyes grew very grave and sad as she stopped 
and looked at him again. Then she held out both her 
hands. 

“ I am going, now. Good-bye.” 

The blood came back to Orsino’s face. It seemed to 
him that he had reached the crisis of his life and his 
instinct was to struggle hard against his fate. With a 


DON OKSINO. 


353 


quick movement he caught her in his arms, lifting her 
from her feet and pressing her close to him. 

“ You shall not go ! 99 

He kissed her passionately again and again, while she 
fought to be free, straining at his arms with her small 
white hands and trying to turn her face from him. 

“ Why do you struggle ? It is of no use.” He spoke 
in very soft deep tones, close to her ear. 

She shook her head desperately and still did her best 
to slip from him, though she might as well have tried to 
break iron clamps with her fingers. 

“ It is of no use,” he repeated, pressing her still more 
closely to him. 

“ Let me go ! ” she cried, making a violent effort, as 
fruitless as the last. 

“ No ! ” 

Then she was quite still, realising that she had no 
chance with him. 

“ Is it manly to be brutal because you are strong ? ” 
she asked. “ You hurt me.” 

Orsino’s arms relaxed, and he let her go. She drew a 
long breath and moved a step backward and towards the 
door. 

“ Good-bye,” she said again. But this time she did 
not hold out her hand, though she looked long and fix- 
edly into his face. 

Orsino made a movement as though he would have 
caught her again. She started and put out her hand be- 
hind her towards the latch. But he did not touch her. 
She softly opened the door, looked at him once more and 
went out. 

When he realised that she was gone he sprang after 
her, calling her by name. 

“ Consuelo ! ” 

There were a few people walking in the broad passage. 
They stared at Orsino, but he did not heed them as he 
passed by. Maria Consuelo was not there, and he under- 
stood in a moment that it would be useless to seek her 

24 


354 


DON ORSINO. 


further. He stood still a moment, entered the reading- 
room again, got his hat and left the hotel without looking 
behind him. 

All sorts of wild ideas and schemes flashed through his 
brain, each more absurd and impracticable than the last. 
He thought of going back and finding Maria Consuelo’s 
maid — he might bribe her to prevent her mistress’s de- 
parture. He thought of offering the driver of the train 
an enormous sum to do some injury to his engine before 
reaching the first station out of Rome. He thought of 
stopping Maria Consuelo’s carriage on her way to the 
train and taking her by main force to his father’s house. 
If she were compromised in such a way, she would be 
almost obliged to marry him. He afterwards wondered 
at the stupidity of his own inventions on that evening, 
but at the time nothing looked impossible. 

He bethought him of Spicca. Perhaps the old man 
possessed some power over his daughter after all and 
could prevent her flight if he chose. There were yet 
nearly two hours left before the train started. If worst 
came to worst, Orsino could still get to the station at the 
last minute and leave Rome with her. 

He took a passing cab and drove to Spicca’s lodgings. 
The count was at home, writing a letter by the light of 
a small lamp. He looked up in surprise as Orsino en- 
tered, then rose and offered him a chair. 

“ What has happened, my friend ? ” he asked, glancing 
curiously at the young man’s face. 

“ Everything,” answered Orsino. “ I love Madame 
d’Aranjuez, she loves me, she absolutely refuses to marry 
me and she is going to Paris at a quarter to ten. I know 
she is your daughter and I want you to prevent her from 
leaving. That is all, I believe.” 

Spicca’s cadaverous face did not change, but the hollow 
eyes grew bright and fixed their glance on an imaginary 
point at an immense distance, and the thin hand that lay 
on the edge of the table closed slowly upon the project- 
ing wood. For a few moments he said nothing, but 
when he spoke he seemed quite calm. 


DON ORSINO. 


355 


“ If she has told you that she is my daughter/’ he said, 
“I presume that she has told you the rest. Is that 
true ? ” 

Orsino was impatient for Spicca to take some immediate 
action, but he understood that the count had a right to 
ask the question. 

“ She has told me that she does not know her mother’s 
name, and that you killed her husband.” 

“Both these statements are perfectly true at all 
events. Is that all you know ? ” 

“All ? Yes — all of importance. But there is no time 
to be lost. No one but you can prevent her from leaving 
Borne to-night. You must help me quickly.” 

Spicca looked gravely at Orsino and shook his head. 
The light that had shone in his eyes for a moment was 
gone, and he was again his habitual, melancholy, indif- 
ferent self. 

“ I cannot stop her,” he said, almost listlessly. 

“ But you can — you will, you must ! ” cried Orsino 
laying a hand on the old man’s thin arm. “ She must 
not go ” 

“ Better that she should, after all. Of what use is it 
for her to stay ? She is quite right. You cannot marry 
her.” 

“ Cannot marry her ? Why not ? It is not long since 
you told me very plainly that you wished I would marry 
her. You have changed your mind very suddenly, it 
seems to me, and I would like to know why. Do you 
remember all you said to me ? ” 

“ Yes, and I was in earnest, as I am now. And I was 
wrong in telling you what I thought at the time.” 

“ At the time ! How can matters have changed so 
suddenly ? ” 

“ I do not say that matters have changed. I have. 
That is the important thing. I remember the occasion 
of our conversation very well. Madame d’Aranjuez had 
been rather abrupt with me, and you and I went away 
together. I forgave her easily enough, for I saw that she 


356 


DON ORSINO. 


was unhappy — then I thought how different her life might 
be if she were married to you. I also wished to convey 
to you a warning, and it did not strike me that you would 
ever seriously contemplate such a marriage.” 

“I think you are in a certain way responsible for the 
present situation,” answered Orsino. “ That is the reason 
why I come to you for help.” 

Spicca turned upon the young man rather suddenly. 

“ There you go too far,” he said. “ Do you mean to 
tell me that you have asked that lady to marry you 
because I suggested it ? ” 

“No, but ” 

“ Then I am not responsible at all. Besides, you might 
have consulted me again, if you had chosen. I have not 
been out of town. I sincerely wish that it were possible 
— yes, that is quite another matter. But it is not. If 
Madame d’Aranjuez thinks it is not, from her point of 
view there are a thousand reasons why I should consider 
it far more completely out of the question. As for pre- 
venting her from leaving Borne I could not do that even 
were I willing to try.” 

“ Then I will go with her,” said Orsino, angrily. 

Spicca looked at him in silence for a few moments* 
Orsino rose to his feet and prepared to go. 

“ You leave me no choice,” he said, as though Spicca 
had protested. 

“ Because I cannot and will not stop her ? Is that any 
reason why you should compromise her reputation as you 
propose to do ? ” 

“ It is the best of reasons. She will marry me then, 
out of necessity.” 

Spicca rose also, with more alacrity than generally 
characterised his movements. He stood before the 
empty fireplace, watching the young man narrowly. 

“ It is not a good reason,” he said, presently, in quiet 
tones. “You are not the man to do that sort of thing. 
You are too honourable.” 

“ I do not see anything dishonourable in following the 
woman I love.” 


DON ORSINO. 


357 


“ That depends on the way in which you follow her. 
If you go quietly home to-night and write to your father 
that you have decided to go to Paris for a few^.ays and 
will leave to-morrow, if you make your arrangements like 
a sensible being and go away like a sane man, I have 

nothing to say in the matter ■” 

“I presume not ” interrupted Orsino, facing the 

old man somewhat fiercely. 

“Very well. We will not quarrel yet. We will re- 
serve that pleasure for the moment when you cease 
to understand me. That way of following her would 
be bad enough, but no one would have any right to stop 
you.” 

“No one has any right to stop me, as it is.” 

“ I beg your pardon. The present circumstances are 
different. In the first instance the world would say that 
you were in love with Madame d’Aranjuez and were pur- 
suing her to press your suit— of whatever nature that 
might be. In the second case the world will assert that 
you and she, not meaning to be married, have adopted 
the simple plan of going away together. That implies 
her consent, and you have no right to let any one imply 
that. I say, it is not honourable to let people think that 
a lady is risking her reputation for you and perhaps sac- 
rificing it altogether, when she is in reality trying to 
escape from you. Am I right, or not ? ” 

“You are ingenious, at all events. You talk as though 
the whole world were to know in half an hour that I 
have gone to Paris in the same train with Madame 
d’Aranjuez. That is absurd ! ” 

“ Is it ? I think not. Half an hour is little, perhaps, 
but half a day is enough. You are not an insignificant 
son of an unknown Roman citizen, nor is Madame 
d’Aranjuez a person who passes unnoticed. Reporters 
watch people like you for items of news, and you are 
perfectly well known by sight. Apart from that, do you 
think that your servants will not tell your friends’ ser- 
vants of your sudden departure, or that Madame d’Aran- 


358 


DON ORSINO. 


juez’ going will not be observed ? You ought to know 
home better than that. I ask you again, am I right or 
wrong ? ” 

“What difference will it make, if we are married 
immediately ? ” 

“She will never marry you. I am convinced of 
that.” 

“ How can you know ? Has she spoken to you about 
it ? ” 

“I am the last person to whom she would come.” 

“ Her own father ” 

“With limitations. Besides, I had the misfortune to 
deprive her of the chosen companion of her life, and at 
a critical moment. She has not forgotten that.” 

“Ho she has not,” answered Orsino gloomily. The 
memory of Aranjuez was a sore point. “Why did you 
kill him ? ” he asked, suddenly. 

“Because he was an adventurer, a liar and a thief — 
three excellent reasons for killing any man, if one can. 
Moreover he struck her once — with that silver paper 
cutter which she insists on using — and I saw it from a 
distance. Then I killed him. Unluckily I was very 
angry and made a little mistake, so that he lived twelve 
hours, and she had time to get a priest and marry him. 
She always pretends that he struck her in play, by acci- 
dent, as he was showing her something about fencing. 
I was in the next room and the door was open — it did 
not look like play. And she still thinks that he was the 
paragon of all virtues. He was a handsome devil — some- 
thing like you, but shorter, with a bad eye. I am glad I 
killed him.” 

Spicca had looked steadily at Orsino while speaking. 
When he ceased, he began to walk about the small room 
with something of his old energy. Orsino roused him- 
self. He had almost begun to forget his own position in 
the interest of listening to the count’s short story. 

“ So much for Aranjuez,” said Spicca. “ Let us hear 
no more of him. As for this mad plan of yours, you are 


DON ORSINO. 


359 


convinced, I suppose, and you will give it up. Go home 
and decide in the morning. For my part, I tell you it is 
useless. She will not marry you. Therefore leave her 
alone and do nothing which can injure her.” 

“ I am not convinced,” answered Orsino doggedly. 

“Then you are not your father’s son. No Saracinesca 
that I ever knew would do what you mean to do — would 
wantonly tarnish the good name of a woman — of a woman 
who loves him too — and whose only fault is that she can- 
not marry him.” 

“ That she will not.” 

“ That she cannot.” 

“ Do you give me your word that she cannot ? ” 
f “ She is legally free to marry whom she pleases, with 
or without my consent.” 

“ That is all I want to know. The rest is nothing to 
me ” 

“ The rest is a great deal. I beg you to consider all 
I have said, and I am sure that you will, quite sure. 
There are very good reasons for not telling you or any 
one else all the details I know in this story — so good 
that I would rather go to the length of a quarrel with 
you than give them all. I am an old man, Orsino, and 
what is left of life does not mean much to me. I will 
sacrifice it to prevent your opening this door unless you 
tell me that you give up the idea of leaving Borne to- 
night.” 

As he spoke he placed himself before the closed door 
and faced the young man. He was old, emaciated, 
physically broken down, and his hands were empty. 
Orsino was in his first youth, tall, lean, active and very 
strong, and no coward. He was moreover in an ugly hu- 
mour and inclined to be violent on much smaller provo- 
cation than he had received. But Spicca imposed upon 
him, nevertheless, for he saw that he was in earnest. 
Orsino was never afterwards able to recall exactly what 
passed through his mind at that moment. He was phys- 
ically able to thrust Spicca aside and to open the door, 


360 


DOX ORSINO. 


without so much as hurting him. He did not believe 
that, even in that case, the old man would have insisted 
upon the satisfaction of arms, nor would he have been 
afraid to meet him if a duel had been required. He 
knew that what withheld him from an act of violence 
was neither fear nor respect for his adversary’s weakness 
and age. Yet he was quite unable to define the influence 
which at last broke down his resolution. It was in all 
probability only the resultant of the argument Spicca had 
brought to bear and which Maria Consuelo had herself 
used in the first instance, and of Spicca’ s calm, undaunted 
personality. 

The crisis did not last long. The two men faced each 
other for ten seconds and then Orsino turned away with 
an impatient movement of the shoulders. 

“Very well,” he said. “I will not go with her.” 

“ It is best so,” answered Spicca, leaving the door and 
returning to his seat. 

“ I suppose that she will let you know where she is, 
will she not ? ” asked Orsino. 

“Yes. She will write to me.” 

“Good-night, then.” 

“ Good-night.” 

Without shaking hands, and almost without a glance 
at the old man, Orsino left the room. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Orsino walked slowly homeward, trying to collect his 
thoughts and to reach some distinct determination with 
regard to the future. He was oppressed by the sense of 
failure and disappointment and felt inclined to despise 
himself for his weakness in yielding so easily. To ail 
intents and purposes he had lost Maria Consuelo, and if 
he had not lost her through his own fault, he had at least 


DOtt ORSttfO. 


861 


tamely abandoned what had seemed like a last chance 
of winning her back. As he thought of all that had 
happened he tried to fix some point in the past, at which 
he might have acted differently, and from which another 
act of consequence might have begun. But that was 
not easy. Events had followed each other with a cer- 
tain inevitable logic, which only looked unreasonable 
because he suspected the existence of facts beyond his 
certain knowledge. His great mistake had been in going 
to Spicca, but nothing could have been more natural, 
under the circumstances, than his appeal to Maria Con- 
suelo’s father, nothing more unexpected than the latter’s 
determined refusal to help him. That there was weight 
in the argument used by both Spicca and Maria Consuelo 
herself, he could not deny ; but he failed to see why the 
marriage was so utterly impossible as they both de- 
clared it to be. There must be much more behind the 
visible circumstances than he could guess. 

He tried to comfort himself with the assurance that he 
could leave Borne on the following day, and that Spicca 
would not refuse to give him Maria Consuelo’s address in 
Paris. But the consolation he derived from the idea was 
small. He found himself wondering at the recklessness 
shown by the woman he loved in escaping from him. 
His practical Italian mind could hardly understand how 
she could have changed all her plans in a moment, aban- 
doning her half-furnished apartment without a word of 
notice even to the workmen, throwing over her intention 
of spending the winter in Borne as though she had not 
already spent many thousands in preparing her dwelling, 
and going away, probably, without as much as leaving 
a representative to wind up her accounts. It may seem 
strange that a man as much in love as Orsino w r as should 
think of such details at such a moment. Perhaps he 
looked upon them rather as proofs that she meant to 
come back after all; in any case he thought of them 
seriously, and even calculated roughly the sum she would 
be sacrificing if she stayed away. 


362 


DON ORSINO. 


Beyond all lie felt the dismal loneliness which a man 
can only feel when he is suddenly and effectually parted 
from the woman he dearly loves, and which is not like 
any other sensation of which the human heart is 
capable. 

More than once, up to the last possible moment, he was 
tempted to drive to the station and leave with Maria 
Consuelo after all, but he would not break the promise 
he had given Spicca, no matter how weak he had been in 
giving it. 

On reaching his home he was informed, to his great 
surprise, that San Giacinto was waiting to see him. He 
could not remember that his cousin had ever before 
honoured him with a visit and he wondered what could 
have brought him now and induced him to wait, just at 
the hour when most people were at dinner. 

The giant was reading the evening paper, with the 
help of a particularly strong cigar. 

“ I am glad you have come home,” he said, rising and 
taking the young man’s outstretched hand. “ I should 
have waited until you did.” 

“ Has anything happened ? ” asked Orsino nervously. 
It struck him that San Giacinto might be the bearer of 
some bad news about his people, and the grave expression 
on the strongly marked face helped the idea. 

“A great deal is happening. The crash has begun. 
You must get out of your business in less than three 
days if you can.” 

Orsino drew a breath of relief at first, and then grew 
grave in his turn, realising that unless matters were very 
serious such a man as San Giacinto would not put himself 
to the inconvenience of coming. San Giacinto was little 
given to offering advice unasked, still less to interfering 
in the affairs of others. 

“I understand,” said Orsino. “ You think that every- 
thing is going to pieces. I see.” 

The big man looked at his young cousin with something 
like pity. 


DON ORSINO. 


363 


“ If I only suspected, or thought — as you put it — that 
there was to he a collapse of business, I should not have 
taken the trouble to warn you. The crash has actually 
begun. If you can save yourself, do so at once.” 

“I think I can,” answered the young man, bravely. 
But he did not at all see how his salvation was to be ac- 
complished. “ Can you tell me a little more definitely 
what is the matter ? Have there been any more failures 
to-day ? ” 

“My brother-in-law Montevarchi is on the point of 
stopping payment,” said San Giacinto calmly. 

“ Montevarchi ! ” 

Orsino did not conceal his astonishment. 

“ Yes. Do not speak of it. And he is in precisely the 
same position, so far as I can judge of your affairs, as you 
yourself, though of course he has dealt with sums ten 
times as great. He will make enormous sacrifices and 
will pay, I suppose, after all. But he will be quite 
ruined. He also has worked with Del Fence’s bank.” 

“ And the bank refuses to discount any more of his 
paper ? ” 

“ Precisely. Since this afternoon.” 

“ Then it will refuse to discount mine to-morrow.” 

“ Have you acceptances due to-morrow ? ” 

“Yes — not much, but enough to make the trouble. It 
will be Saturday, too, and we must have money for the 
workmen.” 

“ Have you not even enough in reserve for that ? ” 

“ Perhaps. I cannot tell. Besides, if the bank refuses 
to renew I cannot draw a cheque.” 

“ I am sorry for you. If I had known yesterday how 
near the end was, I would have warned you.” 

“Thanks. I am grateful as it is. Can you give ms 
any advice ? ” 

Orsino had a vague idea that his rich cousin would 
generously propose to help him out of his difficulties. He 
was not quite sure whether he could bring himself to ac- 
cept such assistance, but he more than half expected that 


S64 


DON ORSINO. 


it would be offered. In this, however, he was completely 
mistaken. San Giacinto had not the smallest intention 
of offering anything more substantial than his opinion. 
Considering that his wife’s brother’s liabilities amounted 
to something like five and twenty millions, this was not 
surprising. The giant bit his cigar and folded his long 
arms over his enormous chest, leaning back in the easy 
chair which creaked under his weight. 

“You have tried yourself in business by this time, 
Orsino,” he said, “ and you know as well as I what there is 
to be done. You have three modes of action open to you. 
You can fail. It is a simple affair enough. The bank will 
take your buildings for what they will be worth a few 
months hence, on the day of liquidation. There will be a 
big deficit, which your father will pay for you and deduct 
from your share of the division at his death. That is one 
plan, and seems to me the best. It is perfectly honour- 
able, and you lose by it. Secondly, you can go to your 
father to-morrow and ask him to lend you money to meet 
your acceptances and to continue the work until the houses 
are finished and can be sold. They will ultimately go for 
a quarter of their value, if you can sell them at all within 
the year, and you will be in your father’s debt, exactly as 
in the other case. You would avoid the publicity of a 
failure, but it would cost you more, because the houses 
will not be worth much more when they are finished than 
they are now.” 

“ And the third plan — what is it ? ” inquired Orsino. 

“ The third way is this. You can go to Del Ferice, and 
if you are a diplomatist you may persuade him that it is 
in his interest not to let you fail. I do not think you will 
succeed, but you can try. If he agrees it will be because 
he counts on your father to pay in the end, but it is 
questionable whether Del Ferice’s bank can afford to let 
out any more cash at the present moment. Money is 
going to be very tight, as they say.” 

Orsino smoked in silence, pondering over the situation. 
San Giacinto rose. 


DON ORSINO. 


365 


“ You are warned, at all events,” he said. “You will 
find a great change for the worse in the general aspect of 
things to-morrow.” 

“ I am much obliged for the warning,” answered Orsino. 
“ I suppose I can always find you if I need your advice — 
and you will advise me ? ” 

“ You are welcome to my advice, such as it is, my dear 
boy. But as for me, I am going towards Naples to-night 
on business, and I may not be back again for a day or two. 
If you get into serious trouble before I am here again, you 
should go to your father at once. He knows nothing of 
business, and has been sensible enough to keep out of it. 
The consequence is that he is as rich as ever, and he would 
sacrifice a great deal rather than see your name dragged 
into the publicity of a failure. Good-night, and good luck 
to you.” 

Thereupon the Titan shook Orsino’s hand in his mighty 
grip and went away. As a matter of fact he was going 
down to look over one of Montevarchi’s biggest estates 
with a view to buying it in the coming cataclysm, but it 
would not have been like him to communicate the smallest 
of his intentions to Orsino, or to any one, not excepting 
his wife and his lawyer. 

Orsino was left to his own devices and meditations. A 
servant came in and inquired whether he wished to dine 
at home, and he ordered strong coffee by way of a meal. 
He was at the age when a man expects to find a way out 
of his difficulties in an artificial excitement of the nerves. 

Indeed, he had enough to disturb him, for it seemed as 
though all possible misfortunes had fallen upon him at 
once. He had suffered on the same day the greatest shock 
to his heart, and the greatest blow to his vanity which he 
could conceive possible. Maria Consuelo was gone and the 
failure of his business was apparently inevitable. When 
he tried to review the three plans which San Giacinto had 
suggested, he found himself suddenly thinking of the 
woman he loved and making schemes for following her ; 
but so soon as he had transported himself in imagination 


366 


DON ORSINO. 


to her side and was beginning to hope that he might win 
her back, he was torn away and plunged again into the 
whirlpool of business at home, struggling with unheard-of 
difficulties and sinking deeper at every stroke. 

A hundred times he rose from his chair and paced the 
floor impatiently, and a hundred times he threw himself 
down again, overcome by the hopelessness of the situation. 
Occasionally he found a little comfort in the reflexion 
that the night could not last for ever. When the day came 
he would be driven to act, in one way or another, and he 
would be obliged to consult his partner, Contini. Then 
at last his mind would be able to follow one connected 
train of thought for a time, and he would get rest of some 
kind. 

Little by little, however, and long before the day 
dawned, the dominating influence asserted itself above 
the secondary one and he was thinking only of Maria 
Consuelo. Throughout all that night she was travelling, 
as she would perhaps travel throughout all the next day 
and the second night succeeding that. Tor she was 
strong and having once determined upon the journey 
would very probably go to the end of it without stopping 
to rest. He wondered whether she too were waking 
through all those long hours, thinking of what she had 
left behind, or whether she had closed her eyes and 
found the peace of sleep for which he longed in vain. 
He thought of her face, softly lighted by the dim lamp 
of the railway carriage, and fancied he could actually see 
it with the delicate shadows, the subdued richness of 
colour, the settled look of sadness. When the picture 
grew dim, he recalled it by a strong effort, though he 
knew that each time it rose before his eyes he must feel 
the same sharp thrust of pain, followed by the same dull 
wave of hopeless misery which had ebbed and flowed 
again so many times since he had parted from her. 

At last he roused himself, looked about him as though 
he were in a strange place, lighted a candle and betook 
himself to his own quarters. It was very late, and he 


DON ORSINO. 


367 


was more tired than he knew, for in spite of all his 
troubles he fell asleep and did not awake till the sun was 
streaming into the room. 

Some one knocked at the door, and a servant announced 
that Signor Contini was waiting to see Don Orsino. The 
man’s face expressed a sort of servile surprise when he 
saw that Orsino had not undressed for the night and had 
been sleeping on the divan. He began to busy himself 
with the toilet things as though expecting Orsino to take 
some thought for his appearance. But the latter was 
anxious to see Contini at once, and sent for him. 

The architect was evidently very much disturbed. He 
was as pale as though he had just recovered from a long 
illness and he seemed to have grown suddenly emaciated 
during the night. He spoke in a low, excited tone. 

In substance he told Orsino what San Giacinto had said 
on the previous evening. Things looked very black in- 
deed, and Del Fence’s bank had refused to discount any 
more of Prince Montevarchi’s paper. 

“ And we must have money to-day,” Contini concluded. 

When he had finished speaking his excitement dis- 
appeared and he relapsed into the utmost dejection. Or- 
sino remained silent for some time and then lit a cigarette. 

“ You need not be so down-hearted, Contini,” he said at 
last. “ I shall not have any difficulty in getting money — 
you know that. What I feel most is the moral failure.” 

“ What is the moral failure to me? ” asked Contini 
gloomily. “ It is all very well to talk of getting money. 
The bank will shut its tills like a steel trap and to-day is 
Saturday, and there are the workmen and others to be 
paid, and several bills due into the bargain. Of course 
your family can give you millions — in time. But we need 
cash to-day. That is the trouble.” 

“ I suppose the state telegraph is not destroyed because 
Prince Montevarchi cannot meet his acceptances,” ob- 
served Orsino. “ And I imagine that our steward here in 
the house has enough cash for our needs, and will not 
hesitate to hand it to me if he receives a telegram from 


368 


DOH ORSINO. 


my father ordering him to do so. Whether he has enough 
to take up the bills or not, I do not know; but as to-day 
is Saturday we have all day to-morrow to make arrange- 
ments. I could even go out to Saracinesca and be back 
on Monday morning wdien the bank opens.” 

“You seem to take a hopeful view.” 

“ I have not the least hope of saving the business. But 
the question of ready money does not of itself disturb 
me.” 

This was undoubtedly true, but it was also undeniable 
that Orsino now looked upon the prospect of failure with 
more equanimity than on the previous evening. On the 
other hand he felt even more keenly than before all the 
pain of his sudden separation from Maria Consuelo. 
When a man is assailed by several misfortunes at once, 
twenty-four hours are generally enough to sift the small 
from the great and to show him plainly which is the 
greatest of all. 

“ What shall we do this morning ? ” inquired Contini. 

“You ask the question as though you were going to 
propose a picnic,” answered Orsino. “ I do not see why 
this morning need be so different from other mornings.” 

“We must stop the works instantly ” 

“Why? At all events we will change nothing until 
we find out the real state of business. The first thing to 
be done is to go to the bank as usual on Saturdays. We 
shall then know exactly what to do.” 

Contini shook his head gloomily and went away to wait 
in another room while Orsino dressed. An hour later they 
were at the bank. Contini grew paler than ever. The 
head clerk would of course inform them that no more bills 
would be discounted, and that they must meet those al- 
ready out when they fell due. He would also tell them 
that the credit balance of their account current would 
not be at their disposal until their acceptances were met. 
Orsino would probably at last believe that the situation 
was serious, though he now looked so supremely and 
scornfully indifferent to events. 


DON ORSINO. 


S69 


They waited some time. Several men were engaged in 
earnest conversation, and their faces told plainly enough 
that they were in trouble. The head clerk was standing 
with them, and made a sign to Orsino, signifying that 
they would soon go. Orsino watched him. From time 
to time he shook his head and made gestures which in- 
dicated his utter inability to do anything for them. Con- 
tini’s courage sank lower and lower. 

“ I will ask for Del Ferice at once,” said Orsino. 

He accordingly sought out one of the men who wore 
the bank’s livery and told him to take his card to the 
count. 

“ The Signor Commendatore is not coming this morn- 
ing,” answered the man mysteriously. 

Orsino went back to the head clerk, interrupting his 
conversation with the others. He inquired if it were 
true that Del Ferice were not coming. 

“ It is not probable,” answered the clerk with a grave 
face. “ They say that the Signora Contessa is not likely 
to live through the day.” 

“ Is Donna Tullia ill ? ” asked Orsino in considerable 
astonishment. 

“She returned from Naples yesterday morning, and 
was taken ill in the afternoon — it is said to be apoplexy,” 
he added in a low voice. “If you will have patience 
Signor Principe, I will be at your disposal in five min- 
utes.” 

Orsino was obliged to be satisfied and sat down again 
by Contini. He told him the news of Del Fence’s wife. 

“ That will make matters worse,” said Contini. 

“ It will not improve them,” answered Orsino indiffer- 
ently. “ Considering the state of affairs I would like to 
see Del Ferice before speaking with any of the others.” 

“Those men are all involved with Prince Monte- 
varchi,” observed Contini, watching the group of which 
the head clerk was the central figure. “You can see by 
their faces what they think of the business. The short, 
grey haired man is the steward — the big man is the archi- 

2b 


370 


DON ORSINO. 


tect. The others are contractors. They say it is not less 
than thirty millions.” 

Orsino said nothing. He was thinking of Maria Con- 
suelo and wishing that he could get away from Koine 
that night, while admitting that there was no possibility 
of such a thing. Meanwhile the head clerk’s gestures to 
his interlocutors expressed more and more helplessness. 
At last they went out in a body. 

“And now I am at your service, Signor Principe,” 
said the grave man of business coming up to Orsino and 
Contini. “ The usual accommodation, I suppose ? We 
will just look over the bills and make out the new ones. 
It will not take ten minutes. The usual cash, I suppose, 
Signor Principe ? Yes, to-day is Saturday and you have 
your men to pay. Quite as usual, quite as usual. Will 
you come into my office ? ” 

Orsino looked at Contini, and Contini looked at Orsino, 
grasping the back of a chair to steady himself. 

“ Then there is no difficulty about discounting ? ” stam- 
mered Contini, turning his face, now suddenly flushed, 
towards the clerk. 

“None whatever,” answered the latter with an air of 
real or affected surprise. “I have received the usual 
instructions to let Andrea Contini and Company have all 
the money they need.” 

He turned and led the way to his private office. Con- 
tini walked unsteadily. Orsino showed no astonish- 
ment, but his black eyes grew a little brighter than usual 
as he anticipated his next interview with San G-iacinto. 
He readily attributed his good fortune to the supposed 
well-known prosperity of the firm, and he rose in his own 
estimation. He quite forgot that Contini, who had now 
lost his head, had but yesterday clearly foreseen the 
future when he had said that Del Fence would not let the 
two partners fail until they had fitted the last door and 
the last window in the last of their houses. The conclu- 
sion had struck him as just at the time. Contini was 
the first to recall it. 


DON ORSINO. 


371 


“ It* will turn out, as I said,” lie began, when they were 
driving to their office in a cab after leaving the bank. 
“ He will let us live until we are worth eating.” 

“We will arrange matters on a firmer basis before 
that,” answered Orsino confidently. “Poor old Donna 
Tullia ! Who would have thought that she could die ! 
I will stop and ask for news as we pass.” 

He stopped the cab before the gilded gate of the de- 
tached house. Glancing up, he saw that the shutters 
were closed. The porter came to the bars but did not 
show any intention of opening. 

“ The Signora Contessa is dead,” he said solemnly, in 
answer to Orsino’s inquiry. 

“ This morning ? ” 

“Two hours ago.” 

Orsino’s face grew grave as he left his card of condo- 
lence and turned away. He could hardly have named a 
person more indifferent to him than poor Donna Tullia, 
but he could not help feeling an odd regret at the thought 
that she was gone at last with all her noisy vanity, her 
restless meddlesomeness and her perpetual chatter. She 
had not been old either, though he called her so, and there 
had seemed to be still a superabundance of life in her. 
There had been yet many years of rattling, useless, social 
life before her. To-morrow she would have taken her 
last drive through Rome — out through the gate of Saint 
Lawrence to the Campo Varano, there to wait many years 
perhaps for the pale and half sickly Ugo, of whom every 
one had said for years that he could not live through 
another twelve month with the disease of the heart which 
threatened him. Of late, people had even begun to 
joke about Donna Tullia’ s third husband. Poor Donna 
Tullia ! 

Orsino went to his office with Contini and forced him- 
self through the usual round of work. Occasionally he 
was assailed by a mad desire to leave Rome at once, but 
he opposed it and would not yield. Though his affairs 
had gone well beyond his expectation the present crisis 


372 


DON ORSINO. 


made it impossible to abandon his business, unless he 
could get rid of it altogether. And this he seriously 
contemplated. He knew however, or thought he knew, 
that Contini would be ruined without him. His own 
name was the one which gave the paper its value and 
decided Del Ferice to continue the advances of money. 
The time was past when Contini would gladly have 
accepted his partner’s share of the undertaking, and 
would even have tried to raise funds to purchase it. To 
retire now would be possible only if he could provide for 
the final liquidation of the whole, and this he could only 
do by applying to his father or mother, in other words 
by acknowledging himself completely beaten in his 
struggle for independence. 

The day ended at last and was succeeded by the idle- 
ness of Sunday. A sort of listless indifference came over 
Orsino, the reaction, no doubt, after all the excitement 
through which he had passed. It seemed to him that 
Maria Consuelo had never loved him, and that it was 
better after all that she should be gone. He longed for 
the old days, indeed, but as she now appeared to him in 
his meditations he did not wish her back. He had no 
desire to renew the uncertain struggle for a love which 
she denied in the end ; and this mood showed, no doubt, 
that his own passion was less violent than he had himself 
believed. When a man loves with his whole nature, 
undividedly, he is not apt to submit to separations with- 
out making a strong effort to reunite himself, by force, 
persuasion or stratagem, with the woman who is trying 
to escape from him. Orsino was conscious of having at 
first felt the inclination to make such an attempt even 
more strongly than he had shown it, but he was con- 
sciousalso that the interval of two days had been enough 
to reduce the wish to follow Maria Consuelo in such a 
way that he could hardly understand having ever enter- 
tained it. 

Unsatisfied passion wears itself out very soon. The 
higher part of love may and often does survive in such 


DON OFvSINO. 


373 


cases, and the passionate impulses may surge up after 
long quiescence as fierce and dangerous as ever. But it 
is rarely indeed that two unsatisfied lovers who have 
parted by the will of the one or of both can meet again 
without the consciousness that the experimental separa- 
tion has chilled feelings once familiar and destroyed 
illusions once more than dear. In older times, perhaps, 
men and women loved differently. There was more 
solitude in those days than now, for what is called 
society was not invented, and people generally were more 
inclined to sadness from living much alone. Melancholy 
is a great strengthener of faithfulness in love. Moreover 
at that time the modern fight for life had not begun, men 
as a rule had few interests besides love and war, and 
women no interests at all beyond love. We moderns 
should go mad if we were suddenly forced to lead the 
lives led by knights and ladies in the twelfth and thir- 
teenth centuries. The monotonous round of such an 
existence in time of peace would make idiots of us, the 
horrors of that old warfare would make many of us ma- 
niacs. But it is possible that youths and maidens would 
love more faithfully and wait longer for each other than 
they will or can to-day. It is questionable whether Bay- 
ard would have understood a single page of a modern 
love story, Tancred would certainly not have done so ; 
but Caesar would have comprehended our lives and our 
interests without effort, and Catullus could have de- 
scribed us as we are, for one great civilization is very 
like another where the same races are concerned. 

In the days which followed Maria Consuelo’s depart- 
ure, Orsino came to a state of indifference which sur- 
prised himself. He remembered that when she had gone 
away in the spring he had scarcely missed her, and that 
he had not thought his own coldness strange, since he was 
sure that he had not loved her then. But that he had 
loved her now, during her last stay in Rome, he was sure, 
and he would have despised himself if he had not been 
able to believe that he loved her stilL Yet, if he was 


374 


DON ORSINO. 


not glad that she had quitted him, he was at least 
strangely satisfied at being left alone, and the old fancy 
for analysis made him try to understand himself. The 
attempt was fruitless, of course, but it occupied his 
thoughts. 

He met Spicca in the street, and avoided him. He 
imagined that the old man must despise him for not 
having resisted and followed Maria Consuelo after all. 
The hypothesis was absurd and the conclusion vain, but 
he could not escape the idea, and it annoyed him. He 
was probably ashamed of not having acted recklessly, as 
a man should who is dominated by a master passion, and 
yet he was inwardly glad that he had not been allowed 
to yield to the first impulse. 

The days succeeded each other and a week passed 
away, bringing Saturday again and the necessity for a 
visit to the bank. Business had been in a very bad state 
since it had been known that Montevarchi was ruined. 
So far, he had not stopped payment and although the 
bank refused discount he had managed to find money 
with which to meet his engagements. Probably, as San 
Giacinto had foretold, he would pay everything and re- 
main a very poor man indeed. But, although many per- 
sons knew this, confidence was not restored. Del Fence 
declared that he believed Montevarchi solvent, as he 
believed every one with whom his bank dealt to be sol- 
vent to the uttermost centime, but that he could lend no 
more money to any one on any condition whatsoever, 
because neither he nor the bank had any to lend. Every 
one, he said, had behaved honestly, and he proposed to 
eclipse the honesty of every one by the frank acknowl- 
edgment of his own lack of cash. He was distressed, 
he said, overcome by the sufferings of his friends and 
clients, ready to sell his house, his jewelry and his very 
boots, in the Roman phrase, to accommodate every one ; 
but he was conscious that the demand far exceeded any 
supply which he could furnish, no matter at what per- 
sonal sacrifice, and as it was therefore impossible to help 


DON ORSINO. 


375 


everybody, it would be unjust to help a few where all 
were equally deserving. 

In the meanwhile he proved the will of his deceased 
wife, leaving him about four and a half millions of francs 
unconditionally, and half a million more to be devoted to 
some public charity at Ugo’s discretion, for the repose of 
Donna Tullia’s unquiet spirit. It is needless to say that 
the sorrowing husband determined to spend the legacy 
magnificently in the improvement of the town represented 
by him in parliament. A part of the improvement would 
consist in a statue of Del Ferice himself — representing 
him, perhaps, as he had escaped from Dome, in the garb 
of a Capuchin friar, but with the addition of an army 
revolver to show that he had fought for Italian unity, 
though when or where no man could tell. But it is worth 
noting that while he protested his total inability to 
discount any one’s bills, Andrea Contini and Company 
regularly renewed their acceptances when due and signed 
new ones for any amount of cash they required. The 
accommodation was accompanied with a request that it 
should not be mentioned. Orsino took the money indif- 
ferently enough, conscious that he had three fortunes at 
his back in case of trouble, but Contini grew more ner- 
vous as time went on and the sums on paper increased 
in magnitude, while the chances of disposing of the 
buildings seemed reduced to nothing in the stagnation 
which had already set in. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

At this time Count Spicca received a letter from Maria 
Consuelo, written from Xice and bearing a postmark more 
recent than the date which headed the page, a fact which 
proved that the writer had either taken an unusually long 
time in the composition or had withheld the missive sev- 
eral days before finally despatching it. 


376 


DON ORSINO. 


“My Father — I write to inform you of certain things which 
have recently taken place and which it is important that you 
should know, and of which I should have the right to require 
an explanation if I chose to ask it. Having been the author of 
my life, you have made yourself also the author of all my un- 
happiness and of all my trouble. I have never understood the 
cause of your intense hatred for me, but I have felt its conse- 
quences, even at a great distance from you, and you know well 
enough that I return it with all my heart. Moreover I have 
made up my mind that I will not be made to suiter by you any 
longer. I tell you so quite frankly. This is a declaration of 
war, and I will act upon it immediately. 

“ You are no doubt aware that Don Orsino Saracinesca has 
for a long time been among my intimate friends. I will not 
discuss the question, whether I. did well to admit him to my 
intimacy or not. That, at least, does not concern you. Even 
admitting your power to exercise the most complete tyranny 
over me in other ways, I am and have always been free to choose 
my own acquaintances, and I am able to defend myself better 
than most women, and as well as any. I will be just, too. 1 
do not mean to reproach you with the consequences of what I 
do. But I will not spare you where the results of your action 
towards me are concerned. 

“ Don Orsino made love to me last spring. I loved him from 
the first. I can hear your cruel laugh and see your contempt- 
uous face as I write. But the information is necessary, and I 
can bear your scorn because this is the last opportunity for such 
diversion which I shall afford you, and because I mean that 
you shall pay dearly for it. I loved Don Orsino, and I love 
him still. You, of course, have never loved. You have hated, 
however, and perhaps one passion may be the measure of an- 
other. It is in my case, I can assure you, for the better I love, 
the better I learn to hate you. 

“ Last Thursday Don Orsino asked me to be his wife. I had 
known for some time that he loved me and I knew that he 
would speak of it before long. The day was sultry at first and 
then there was a thunderstorm. My nerves were unstrung and 
I lost my head. I told him that I loved him. That does not 
concern you. I told him, also, however, that I had given a 
solemn promise to my dying husband, and I had still the 
strength to say that I would not marry again. I meant to gain 
time, I longed to be alone, I knew that I should yield, but I 
would not yield blindly. Thank God, I was strong. I am like 


DON ORSINO. 


377 


you in that, though happily not in any other way. You ask 
me why I should even think of yielding. I answer that I love 
Don Orsino better than I loved the man you murdered. There 
is nothing humiliating in that, and I make the confession with- 
out reserve. I love him better, and therefore, being human, I 
would have broken my promise and married him, had marriage 
been possible. But it is not, as you know. It is one thing to 
turn to the priest as he stands by a dying man and to say, Pro- 
nounce us man and wife, and give us a blessing, for the sake of 
this man’s rest. The priest knew that we were both free, and 
took the responsibility upon himself, knowing also that the act 
could have no consequences in fact, whatever it might prove to 
be in theory. It is quite another matter to be legally married 
to Don Orsino Saracinesca, in the face of a strong opposition. 
But I went home that evening, believing that it could be done 
and that the opposition w r ould vanish. I believed because I 
loved. I love still, but what I learned that night has killed my 
belief in an impossible happiness. 

“ I need not tell you all that passed between me and Lucrezia 
Ferris. How she knew of what had happened I cannot tell. 
She must have followed us to the apartment I was furnishing, 
and she must have overheard what we said, or seen enough to 
convince her. She is a spy. I suppose that is the reason why 
she is imposed upon me, and always has been, since I can 
remember — since I was born, she says. I found her waiting to 
dress me as usual, and as usual I did not speak to her. She 
spoke first. ‘ You will not marry Don Orsino Saracinesca,’ she 
said, facing me with her bad eyes. I could have struck her, 
but I would not. I asked her what she meant. She told me 
that she knew what I was doing, and asked me whether I was 
aware that I needed documents in order to be married to a beg- 
gar in Rome, and whether I supposed that the Saracinesca would 
be inclined to overlook the absence of such papers, or could pass 
a law of their own abolishing the necessity for them, or, finally, 
whether they would accept such certificates of my origin as she 
could produce. She showed me a package. She had nothing 
better to offer me, she said, but such as she had, she heartily 
placed at my disposal. I took the papers. I was prepared for 
a shock, but not for the blow I received. 

“You know what I read. The certificate of my birth as the 
daughter of Lucrezia Ferris, unmarried, by Count Spicca who 
acknowledged the child as his — and the certificate of your mar- 
riage with Lucrezia Ferris, dated — strangely enough a fortnight 


378 


BON ORSINO. 


after my birth — and further a document legitimizing me as the 
lawful daughter of you two. All these documents are from 
Monte Carlo. You will understand why I am in Nice. Yes — 
they are all genuine, every one of them, as I have had no diffi- 
culty in ascertaining. So I am the daughter of Lucrezia Ferris, 
born out of wedlock and subsequently whitewashed into a sort 
of legitimacy. And Lucrezia Ferris is lawfully the Countess 
Spicca. Lucrezia Ferris, the cowardly spy-woman who more than 
half controls my life, the lying, thieving servant — she robs me at 
every turn— the common, half educated Italian creature, — she 
is my mother, she is that radiant being of whom you sometimes 
speak with tears in your eyes, she is that angel of whom I 
remind you, she is that sweet influence that softened and 
brightened your lonely life for a brief space some three and 
twenty years ago ! She has changed since then. 

“ And this is the mystery of my birth which you have con- 
cealed from me, and which it was at any moment in the power 
of my vile mother to reveal. You cannot deny the fact, I sup- 
pose, especially since I have taken the trouble to search the 
registers and verify each separate document. 

“ I gave them all back to her, for I shall never need them. 
The woman — I mean my mother — was quite right. I shall not 
marry Don Orsino Saracinesca. You have lied to me through- 
out my life. You have always told me that my mother was 
dead, and that I need not be ashamed of my birth, though you 
wished it kept a secret. So far, I have obeyed you. In that 
respect, and only in that, I will continue to act according to 
your wishes. I am not called upon to proclaim to the world and 
my acquaintance that I am the daughter of my own servant, and 
that you were kind enough to marry your estimable mistress 
after my birth in order to confer upon me what you dignify by 
the name of legitimacy. No. That is not necessary. If it 
could hurt you to proclaim it I would do so in the most public 
way I could find. But it is folly to suppose that you could be 
made to suffer by so simple a process. 

“ Are you aware, my father, that you have ruined all my life 
from the first ? Being so bad, you must be intelligent and you 
must realise what you have done, even if you have done it out 
of pure love of evil. You pretended to be kind to me, until I 
was old enough to feel all the pain you had in store for me. 
But even then, after you had taken the trouble to marry my 
mother, why did you give me another name? Was that neces- 
sary? I suppose it was. I did not understand then why my 


DON ORSINO. 


379 


older companions looked askance at me in the convent, nor why 
the nuns sometimes whispered together and looked at me. They 
knew perhaps that no such name as mine existed. Since I was 
your daughter why did I not bear your name when I was a little 
girl? You were ashamed to let it be known that you were 
married, seeing what sort of wife you had taken, and you 
found yourself in a dilemma. If you had acknowledged me as 
your daughter in Austria, your friends in Rome would soon 
have found out my existence — and the existence of your wife. 
You were very cautious in those days, but you seem to have 
grown careless of late, or you would not have left those papers 
in the care of the Countess Spicca, my maid — and my mother. 
I have heard that very bad men soon reach their second child- 
hood and act foolishly. It is quite true. 

“ Then, later, when you saw that I loved, and was loved, and 
was to be happy, you came between my love and me. You 
appeared in your own character as a liar, a slanderer and a 
traitor. I loved a man who was brave, honourable, faithful — 
reckless, perhaps, and wild as such men are — but devoted and 
true. You came between us. You told me that he was false, 
cowardly, an adventurer of the worst kind. Because I would 
not believe you, and would have married him in spite of you, 
you killed him. Was it cowardly of him to face the first 
swordsman in Europe ? They told me that he was not afraid of 
you, the men who saw it, and that he fought you like a lion, as 
he was. And the provocation, too! He never struck me. 
He was showing me what he meant by a term in fencing — the 
silver knife he held grazed my cheek because I was startled and 
moved. But you meant to kill him, and you chose to say that 
he had struck me. Did you ever hear a harsh word from his 
lips during those months of waiting ? When you had done your 
work you fled — like the murderer you were and are. But I 
escaped from the woman who says she is my mother — and is — 
and I went to him and found him living and married him. 
You used to tell me that he was an adventurer and little better 
than a beggar. Yet he left me a large fortune. It is as well 
that he provided for me, since you have succeeded in losing 
most of your own money at play — doubtless to insure my not 
profiting by it at your death. Not that you will die — men of 
your kind outlive their victims, because they kill them. 

“ And now, when you saw — for you did see it — when you saw 
and knew that Orsino Saracinesca and I loved each other, you 
have broken my life a second time. You might so easily have 


380 


DON ORSINO. 


gone to him, or have come to me, at the first, with the truth. 
You know that I should never forgive you for what you had done 
already. A little more could have made matters no worse then. 
You knew that Don Orsino would have thanked you as a friend 
for the warning. Instead — I refuse to believe you in your 
dotage after all — you make that woman spy upon me until the 
great moment is come, you give her the weapons and you bid 
her strike when the blow will be most excruciating. You are 
not a man. You are Satan. I parted twice from the man I 
love. He would not let me go, and he came back and tried to 
keep me — I do not know how I escaped. God helped me. He 
is so brave and noble that if he had held those accursed papers 
in his hands and known all the truth he would not have given 
me up. He would have brought a stain on his great name, and 
shame upon his great house for my sake. He is not like you. I 
parted from him twice, I know all that I can suffer, and I hate 
you for each individual suffering, great and small. 

“ I have dismissed my mother from my service. How that 
would sound in Rome ! I have given her as much money as she 
can expect and I have got rid of her. She said that she would 
not go, that she would write to you, and many other things. 
I told her that if she attempted to stay I would go to the author- 
ities, prove that she was my mother, provide for her, if the law 
required it and have her forcibly turned out of my house by the 
aid of the same law. I am of age, married, independent, and I 
cannot be obliged to entertain my mother either in the character 
of a servant, or as a visitor. I suppose she has a right to a 
lodging under your roof. I hope she will take advantage of it, 
as I advised her. She took the money and went away, cursing 
me. I think that if she had ever, in all my life, shown the 
smallest affection for me — even at the last, when she declared 
herself my mother, if she had shown a spark of motherly feel- 
ing, of tenderness, of anything human, I could have accepted 
her and tolerated her, half peasant woman as she is, spy as she 
has been, and cheat and thief. But she stood before me with the 
most perfect indifference, watching my surprise with those bad 
eyes of hers. I wonder why I have borne her presence so long. 
I suppose it had never struck me that I could get rid of her, in 
spite of you, if I chose. By the bye, I sent for a notary when I 
paid her, and I got a legal receipt signed with her legal name, 
Lucrezia Spicca, nata Ferris. The document formally releases 
me from all further claims. I hope you will understand that 
you have no power whatsoever to impose her upon me again, 


DOST ORSINO. 


381 


though I confess that I am expecting your next move with inter- 
est. I suppose that you have not done with me yet, and have 
some new means of torment in reserve. Satan is rarely idle 
long. 

“ And now I have done. If you were not the villain you are, 
I should expect you to go to the man whose happiness I have 
endangered, if not destroyed. I should expect you to tell Don 
Orsino Saracinesca enough of the truth to make him under- 
stand my action. But I know you far too well to imagine that 
you would willingly take from my life one thorn of the many 
you have planted in it. I will write to Don Orsino myself. I 
think you need not fear him — I am sorry that you need not. 
But I shall not tell him more than is necessary. You will re- 
member, I hope, that such discretion as I may show, is not 
shown out of consideration for you, but out of forethought for 
my own welfare. I have unfortunately no means of preventing 
you from writing to me, but you may be sure that your letters 
will never be read, so that you will do as well to spare yourself 
the trouble of composing them. 

“ Maria Consuelo d’Aranjuez.” 

Spicca received this letter early in the morning, and 
at mid-day he still sat in his chair, holding it in his 
hand. His face was very white, his head hung forward 
upon his breast, his thin fingers were stiffened upon the 
thin paper. Only the hardly perceptible rise and fall of 
the chest showed that he still breathed. 

The clocks had already struck twelve when his old 
servant entered the room, a being thin, wizened, grey 
and noiseless as the ghost of a greyhound. He stood 
still a moment before his master, expecting that he 
would look up, then bent anxiously over him and felt 
his hands. 

Spicca slowly raised his sunken eyes. 

“ It will pass, Santi — it will pass,” he said feebly. 

Then he began to fold up the sheets slowly and with 
difficulty, but very neatly, as men of extraordinary skill 
with their hands do everything. Santi looked at him 
doubtfully and then got a glass and a bottle of cordial 
from a small carved press in the corner. Spicca drank 


382 


BON ORSINO. 


the liqueur slowly and set the glass steadily upon the 
table. 

“ Bad news, Signor Conte ? ” asked the servant anx- 
iously, and in a way which betrayed at once the kindly 
relations existing between the two. 

“Very bad news,” Spicca answered sadly and shaking 
his head. 

Santi sighed, restored the cordial to the press and took 
up the glass, as though he were about to leave the room. 
But he still lingered near the table, glancing uneasily at 
his master as though he had something to say, but was 
hesitating to begin. 

“ What is it, Santi ? ” asked the count. 

“ I beg your pardon, Signor Conte — you have had bad 
news — if you will allow me to speak, there are several 
small economies which could still be managed without 
too much inconveniencing you. Pardon the liberty, 
Signor Conte.” 

“ I know, I know. But it is not money this time. I 
wish it were.” 

Santi’s expression immediately lost much of its anxi- 
ety. He had shared his master’s fallen fortunes and 
knew better than he what he meant by a few more small 
economies, as he called them. 

“God be praised, Signor Conte,” he said solemnly. 
“ May I serve the breakfast ? ” 

“ I have no appetite, Santi. Go and eat yourself.” 

“ A little something ? ” Santi spoke in a coaxing 
way. “I have prepared a little mixed fry, with toast, 
as you like it, Signor Conte, and the salad is good to-day 
— ham and figs are also in the house. Let me lay the 
cloth — when you see, you will eat — and just one egg 
beaten up with a glass of red wine to begin — that will 
dispose the stomach.” 

Spicca shook his head again, but Santi paid no atten- 
tion to the refusal and went about preparing the meal. 
When it was ready the old man suffered himself to be 
persuaded and ate a little. He was in reality stronger 


DON ORSINO. 


383 


than he looked, and an extraordinary nervous energy 
still lurked beneath the appearance of a feebleness 
almost amounting to decrepitude. The little nourish- 
ment he took sufficed to restore the balance, and when 
he rose from the table, he was outwardly almost himself 
again. When a man has suffered great moral pain for 
years, he bears a new shock, even the worst, better than 
one who is hard hit in the midst of a placid and long 
habitual happiness. The soul can be taught to bear 
trouble as the great self mortifiers of an earlier time 
taught their bodies to bear scourging. The process is 
painful but hardening. 

“I feel better, Santi,” said Spicca. “Your breakfast 
has done me good. You are an excellent doctor.” 

He turned away and took out his pocket-book — not 
over well garnished. He found a ten franc note. Then 
he looked round and spoke in a gentle, kindly tone. 

“Santi — this trouble has nothing to do with money. 
You need a new pair of shoes, I am sure. Do you think 
that ten francs is enough ? ” 

Santi bowed respectfully and took the money. 

“ A thousand thanks, Signor Conte,” he said. 

Santi was a strange man, from the heart of the Ab- 
ruzzi. He pocketed the note, but that night, when he 
had undressed his master and was arranging the things 
on the dressing table, the ten francs found their way 
back into the black pocket-book. Spicca never counted, 
and never knew. 

He did . not write to Maria Consuelo, for he was well 
aware that in her present state of mind she would un- 
doubtedly burn his letter unopened, as she had said she 
would. Late in the day he went out, walked for an 
hour, entered the club and read the papers, and at last 
betook himself to the restaurant where Orsino dined 
when his people were out of town. 

In due time, Orsino appeared, looking pale and ill 
tempered. He caught sight of Spicca and went at once 
to the table where he sat. 


384 


DON OHSINO. 


“ I have had a letter,” said the young man. “I must 
speak to you. If you do not object, we will dine together.” 

“By all means. There is nothing like a thoroughly 
bad dinner to promote ill-feeling.” 

Orsino glanced at the old man in momentary surprise. 
But he knew his ways tolerably well, and was familiar 
with the chronic acidity of his speech. 

“You probably guess who has written to me,” Orsino 
resumed. “ It was natural, perhaps, that she should 
have something to say, but what she actually says, is 
more than I was prepared to hear.” 

Spicca’s eyes grew less dull and he turned an inquir- 
ing glance on his companion. 

“ When I tell you that in this letter, Madame d’Aran- 
juez has confided to me the true story of her origin, I 
have probably said enough,” continued the young man. 

“You have said too much or too little,” Spicca an- 
swered in an almost indifferent tone. 

“ How so ? ” 

“Unless you tell me just what she has told you, or 
show me the letter, I cannot possibly judge of the truth 
of the tale.” 

Orsino raised his head angrily. 

“Do you mean me to doubt that Madame d’Aranjuez 
speaks the truth ? ” he asked. 

“Calm yourself. Whatever Madame d’Aranjuez has 
written to you, she believes to be true. But she may have 
been herself deceived.” 

“ In spite of documents — public registers ” 

“ Ah ! Then she has told you about those certificates ? ” 

“ That — and a great deal more which concerns you.” 

“Precisely. A great deal more. I know all about the 
registers, as you may easily suppose, seeing that they 
concern two somewhat important acts in my own life and 
that I was very careful to have those acts properly recorded, 
beyond the possibility of denial — beyond the possibility 
of denial,” he repeated very slowly and emphatically. 
“ Do you understand that ? ” 


DON ORSINO. 


385 


“ It would not enter the mind of a sane person to doubt 
such evidence,” answered Orsino rather scornfully. 

“No, I suppose not. As you do not therefore come to 
me for confirmation of what is already undeniable, I can- 
not understand why you come to me at all in this matter, 
unless you do so on account of other things which Madame 
d’Aranjuez has written you, and of which you have so far 
kept me in ignorance.” 

Spicca spoke with a formal manner and in cold tones, 
drawing up his bent figure a little. A waiter came to the 
table and both men ordered their dinner. The interrup- 
tion rather favoured the development of a hostile feeling 
between them, than otherwise. 

“I will explain my reasons for coming to find you 
here,” said Orsino when they were again alone. 

“ So far as I am concerned, no explanation is necessary. 
I am content not to understand. Moreover, this is a 
public place, in which we have accidentally met and dined 
together before.” 

“ I did not come here by accident,” answered Orsino. 
“ And I did not come in order to give explanations but 
to ask for one.” 

“ Ah ? ” Spicca eyed him coolly. 

“Yes. I wish to know why you have hated your 
daughter all her life, why you persecute her in every 
way, why you ” 

“ Will you kindly stop ? ” 

The old man’s voice grew suddenly clear and incisive, 
and Orsino broke off in the middle of his sentence. A 
moment’s pause followed. 

“ I requested you to stop speaking,” Spicca resumed, 
“because you were unconsciously making statements which 
have no foundation whatever in fact. Observe that I 
say, unconsciously. You are completely mistaken. I do 
not hate Madame d’Aranjuez. I love her with all my 
heart and soul. I do not persecute her in every way, 
nor in any way. On the contrary, her happiness is the 
only object of such life as I still have to live, and I have 

2c 


386 


DON ORSINO. 


little but that life left to give her. I am in earnest, 
Orsino.” 

“I see you are. That makes what you say all the 
more surprising.” 

“No doubt it does. Madame d’Aranjuez has just 
written to you, and you have her letter in your pocket. 
She has told you in that letter a number of facts in her 
own life, as she sees them, and you look at them as she 
does. It is natural. To her and to you, I appear to be 
a monster of evil, a hideous incarnation of cruelty, a devil 
in short. Did she call me a devil in her letter ? ” 

“She did.” 

“ Precisely. She has also written to me, informing me 
that I am Satan. There is a directness in the statement 
and a general disregard of probability which is not with- 
out charm. Nevertheless, I am Spicca, and not Beelzebub, 
her assurances to the contrary notwithstanding. You see 
how views may differ. You know much of her life, but 
you know nothing of mine, nor is it my intention to tell 
you anything about myself. But I will tell you this 
much. If I could do anything to mend matters, I would. 
If I could make it possible for you to marry Madame 
d’Aranjuez — being what you are, and fenced in as you 
are, I would. If I could tell you all the rest of the truth, 
which she does not know, nor dream of, I would. I am 
bound by a very solemn promise of secrecy — by something 
more than a promise in fact. Yet, if I could do good to 
her by breaking oaths, betraying confidence and trampling 
on the deepest obligations which can bind a man, I would. 
But that good cannot be done any more. That is all I can 
tell you.” 

“It is little enough. You could, and you can, tell the 
whole truth, as you call it, to Madame d’Aranjuez. I 
would advise you to do so, instead of embittering her 
life at every turn.” 

“ I have not asked for your advice, Orsino. That she 
is unhappy, I know. That she hates me, is clear. She 
would not be the happier for hating me less, since nothing 


DON ORSINO. 


387 


else would be changed. She need not think of me, if the 
subject is disagreeable. In all other respects she is 
perfectly free. She is young, rich, and at liberty to go 
where she pleases and to do what she likes. So long as 
I am alive, I shall watch over her ” 

“And destroy every chance of happiness which pre- 
sents itself, ” interrupted Orsino. 

“I gave you some idea, the other night, of the happi- 
ness she might have enjoyed with the deceased Aranjuez. 
If I made a mistake in regard to what I saw him do — I 
admit the possibility of an error — I was nevertheless 
quite right in ridding her of the man. I have atoned 
for the mistake, if we call it so, in a way of which you 
do not dream, nor she either. The good remains, for 
Aranjuez is buried.” 

“You speak of secret atonement — I was not aware that 
you ever suffered from remorse.” 

“Nor I,” answered Spicca drily. 

“ Then what do you mean ? ” 

“You are questioning me, and I have warned you that 
I will tell you nothing about myself. You will confer a 
great favour upon me by not insisting.” 

“ Are you threatening me again ? ” 

“I am not doing anything of the kind. I never 
threaten any one. I could kill you as easily as I killed 
Aranjuez, old and decrepit as I look, and I should be 
perfectly indifferent to the opprobrium of killing so 
young a man — though I think that, looking at us two, 
many people might suppose the advantage to be on your 
side rather than on mine. But young men nowadays do 
not learn to handle arms. Short of laying violent hands 
upon me, you will find it quite impossible to provoke me. 
I am almost old enough to be your grandfather, and I 
understand you very well. You love Madame d’ Aran- 
juez. She knows that to marry you would be to bring 
about such a quarrel with your family as might ruin half 
your life, and she has the rare courage to tell you so and 
to refuse your offer. You think that I can do something 


388 


DON ORSINO. 


to help you and you are incensed because I am power- 
less, and furious because I object to your leaving Rome 
in the same train with her, against her will. You are 
more furious still to-day because you have adopted her 
belief that I am a monster of iniquity. Observe — that, 
apart from hindering you from a great piece of folly the 
other day, I have never interfered. I do not interfere 
now. As I said then, follow her if you please, persuade 
her to marry you if you can, quarrel with all your family 
if you like. It is nothing to me. Publish the banns of 
your marriage on the doors of the Capitol and declare to 
the whole world that Madame d’Aranjuez, the future 
Princess Saracinesca, is the daughter of Count Spicca and 
Lucrezia Perris, his lawful wife. There will be a little 
talk, but it will not hurt me. People have kept their 
marriages a secret for a whole lifetime before now. I do 
not care what you do, nor what the whole tribe of the 
Saracinesca may do, provided that none of you do harm 
to Maria Consuelo, nor bring useless suffering upon her. 
If any of you do that, I will kill you. That at least is 
a threat, if you like. Good-night.” 

Thereupon Spicca rose suddenly from his seat, leaving 
his dinner unfinished, and went out. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

Orsino did not leave Rome after all. He was not in 
reality prevented from doing so by the necessity of 
attending to his business, for he might assuredly have 
absented himself for a week or two at almost any time 
before the new year, without incurring any especial 
danger. Prom time to time, at ever increasing inter- 
vals, he felt strongly impelled to rejoin Maria Consuelo 
in Paris where she had ultimately determined to spend 
the autumn and winter, but the impulse always lacked 


DON ORSINO. 


389 


just the measure of strength which would have made it a 
resolution. When he thought of his many hesitations he 
did not understand himself and he fell in his own estima- 
tion, so that he became by degrees more silent and mel- 
ancholy of disposition than had originally been natural 
with him. 

He had much time for reflection and he constantly 
brooded over the situation in which he found himself. 
The question seemed to be, whether he loved Maria 
Consuelo or not, since he was able to display such appar- 
ent indifference to her absence. In reality he also doubted 
whether he was loved by her, and the one uncertainty was 
fully as great as the other. 

He went over all that had passed. The position had 
never been an easy one, and the letter which Maria 
Consuelo had written to him after her departure had not 
made it easier. It had contained the revelations concern- 
ing her birth, together with many references to Spicca’s 
continued cruelty, plentifully supported by statements 
of facts. She had then distinctly told Orsino that she 
would never marry him, under any circumstances what- 
ever, declaring that if he followed her she would not 
even see him. She would not ruin his life and plunge 
him into a life long quarrel with his family, she said, and 
she added that she would certainly not expose herself to 
such treatment as she would undoubtedly receive at the 
hands of the Saracinesca if she married Orsino without 
his parents’ consent. 

A man does not easily believe that he is deprived of 
what he most desires exclusively for his own good and 
welfare, and the last sentence quoted wounded Orsino 
deeply. He believed himself ready to incur the displeas- 
ure of all his people for Maria Consuelo’s sake, and he 
said in his heart that if she loved him she should be 
ready to bear as much as he. The language in which she 
expressed herself, too, was cold and almost incisive. 

Unlike Spicca Orsino answered this letter, writing in 
an argumentative strain, bringing the best reasons he 


390 


DO N ORSINO. 


could find to bear against those she alleged, and at last 
reproaching her with not being willing to suffer for his 
sake a tenth part of what he would endure for her. But 
he announced his intention of joining her before long, and 
expressed the certainty that she would receive him. 

To this Maria Consuelo made no reply for some time. 
When she wrote at last, it was to say that she had care- 
fully considered her decision and saw no good cause for 
changing it. To Orsino her tone seemed colder and more 
distant than ever. The fact that the pages were blotted 
here and there and that the handwriting was unsteady, 
was probably to be referred to her carelessness. He 
brooded over his misfortune, thought more than once of 
making a desperate effort to win back her love, and re- 
mained in Borne. After a long interval he wrote to her 
again. This time he produced an epistle which, under 
the circumstances, might have seemed almost ridiculous. 
It was full of indifferent gossip about society, it contained 
a few sarcastic remarks about his own approaching fail- 
ure, with some rather youthfully cynical observations on 
the instability of things in general and the hollowness of 
all aspirations whatsoever. 

He received no answer, and duly repented the flippant 
tone he had taken. He would have been greatly surprised 
could he have learned that this last letter was destined 
to produce a greater effect upon his life than all he had 
written before it. 

In the meanwhile his father, who had heard of the in- 
creasing troubles in the world of business, wrote him in 
a constant strain of warning, to which he paid little at- 
tention. His mother’s letters, too, betrayed her anxiety, 
but expressed what his father’s did not, to wit the most 
boundless confidence in his power to extricate himself 
honourably from all difficulties, together with the assur- 
ance that if worst came to worst she was always ready to 
help him. 

Suddenly and without warning old Saracinesca returned 
from his wanderings. He had taken the trouble to keep 


DON ORSINO. 


891 


the family informed of his movements by his secretary 
during two or three months and had then temporarily 
allowed them to lose sight of him, thereby causing them 
considerable anxiety, though an occasional paragraph in 
a newspaper reassured them from time to time. Then, 
on a certain afternoon in November, he appeared, alone 
and in a cab, as though he had been out for a stroll. 

“Well, my boy, are you ruined yet?” he inquired, 
entering Orsino’s room without ceremony. 

The young man started from his seat and took the old 
gentleman’s rough hand, with an exclamation of surprise. 

“Yes — you may well look at me,” laughed the Prince. 
“I have grown ten years younger. And you?” He 
pushed his grandson into the light and scrutinised his 
face fiercely. “And you are ten years older,” he con- 
cluded, in a discontented tone. 

“ I did not know it,” answered Orsino with an attempt 
at a laugh. 

“You have been at some mischief. I know it. I can 
see it.” 

He dropped the young fellow’s arm, shook his head 
and began to move about the room. Then he came back 
all at once and looked up into Orsino’s face from beneath 
his bushy eyebrows. 

“ Out with it, I mean to know ! ” he said, roughly but 
not unkindly. “ Have you lost money ? Are you ill ? 
Are you in love ? ” 

Orsino would certainly have resented the first and the 
last questions, if not all three, had they been put to him 
by his father. There was something in the old Prince’s 
nature, something warmer and more human, which ap- 
pealed to his own. Sant’ Ilario was, and always had 
been, outwardly cold, somewhat measured in his speech, 
undemonstrative, a man not easily moved to much expres- 
sion or to real sympathy except by love, but capable, 
under that influence, of going to great lengths. And 
Orsino, though in some respects resembling his mother 
rather than his father, was not unlike the latter, with a 


392 


DON ORSINO. 


larger measure of ambition and less real pride. It was 
probably the latter characteristic which made him feel 
the need of sympathy in a way his father had never 
felt it and could never understand it, and he was thereby 
drawn more closely to his mother and to his grand- 
father than to Sant’ Ilario. 

Old Saracinesca evidently meant to be answered, as he 
stood there gazing into Orsino’s eyes. 

“A great deal has happened since you went away,” 
said Orsino, half wishing that he could tell everything. 
“ In the first place, business is in a very bad state, and I 
am anxious.” 

“ Dirty work, business,” grumbled Saracinesca. “I 
always told you so. Then you have lost money, you 
young idiot ! I thought so. Did you think you were 
any better than Montevarchi ? I hope you have kept 
your name out of the market, at all events. What in the 
name of heaven made you put your hand to such filth ! 
Come — how much do you want ? We will whitewash 
you and you shall start to-morrow and go round the 
world.” 

“ But I am not in actual need of money at all ” 

“ Then what the devil are you in need of ? ” 

“ An improvement in business, and the assurance that 
I shall not ultimately be bankrupt.” 

“ If money is not an assurance that you will not be 
bankrupt, I would like to learn what is. All this is 
nonsense. Tell me the truth, my boy — you are in love. 
That is the trouble.” 

Orsino shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I have been in love some time,” he answered. 

“ Young ? Old ? Marriageable ? Married ? Out with 
it, I say ! ” 

“ I would rather talk about business. I think it is all 
over now.” 

“ Just like your father — always full of secrets ! As if 
I did not know all about it. You are in love with that 
Madame d’Aranjuez.” 


DON ORSINO. 


393 


Orsino turned a little pale. 

“ Please do not call her ‘that* Madame d’Aranjuez,” 
he said, gravely. 

" Eh ? What ? Are you so sensitive about her ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“You are? Very well — I like that. What about 
her ? ” 

“ What a question ! ” 

“I mean — is she indifferent, cold, in love with some 
one else ? ” 

“ Not that I am aware. She has refused to marry me 
and has left Borne, that is all.” 

“ Befused to marry you ! ” cried old Saracinesca in 
boundless astonishment. “ My dear boy, you must be out 
of your mind ! The thing is impossible. You are the 
best match in Eome. Madame d’Aranjuez refuse you — 
absolutely incredible, not to be believed for a moment. 
You are dreaming. A widow — without much fortune — 
the relict of some curious adventurer — a woman looking 
for a fortune, a woman ” 

“ Stop ! ” cried Orsino, savagely. 

“ Oh yes — I forgot. You are sensitive. Well, well, I 
meant nothing against her, except that she must be in- 
sane if what you tell me is true. But I am glad of it, 
my boy, very glad. She is no match for you, Orsino. I 
confess, I wish you would marry at once. I would like 
to see my great grandchildren — but not Madame d’Aran- 
juez. A widow, too.” 

“ My father married a widow.” 

“ When you find a widow like your mother, and ten 
years younger than yourself, marry her if you can. But 
not Madame d’Aranjuez — older than you by several 
years.” 

“ A few years.” 

“ Is that all ? It is too much, though. And who is 
Madame d’Aranjuez ? Everybody was asking the ques- 
tion last winter. I suppose she had a name before she 
married, and since you have been trying to make her 


394 


DON OKSINO. 


your wife, you must know all about her. Who was 
she ? ” 

Orsino hesitated. 

“ You see ! ” cried the old Prince. “ It is not all 
right. There is a secret — there is something wrong 
about her family, or about her entrance into the world. 
She knows perfectly well that we would never receive 
her and has concealed it all from you ” 

“ She has not concealed it. She has told me the exact 
truth. But I shall not repeat it to you.” 

“ All the stronger proof that everything is not right. 
You are well out of it, my boy, exceedingly well out of 
it. I congratulate you.” 

“ I would rather not be congratulated.” 

“ As you please. I am sorry for you, if you are un- 
happy. Try and forget all about it. How is your 
mother ? ” 

At any other time Orsino would have laughed at the 
characteristic abruptness. 

“ Perfectly well, I believe. I have not seen her all 
summer,” he answered gravely. 

“Not been to Saracinesca all summer! No wonder 
you look ill. Telegraph to them that I have come back 
and let us get the family together as soon as possible. 
Do you think I mean to spend six months alone in your 
company, especially when you are away all day at that 
wretched office of yours ? Be quick about it — telegraph 
at once.” 

“Very well. But please do not repeat anything of 
what I have told you to my father or my mother. That 
is the only thing I have to ask.” 

“ Am I a parrot ? I never talk to them of your 
affairs.” 

“Thanks. I am grateful.” 

“ To heaven because your grandfather is not a para- 
keet ! No doubt. You have good cause. And look 
here, Orsino ” 

The old man took Orsino’s arm and held it firmly, 
speaking in a lower tone. 


DON ORSINO. 


395 


“ Do not make an ass of yourself, my boy — especially 
in business. But if you do — and you probably will, you 
know — just come to me, without speaking to any one else. 
I will see what can be done without noise. There — take 
that, and forget all about your troubles and get a little 
more colour into your face.” 

“ You are too good to me,” said Orsino, grasping the old 
Prince’s hand. For once, he was really moved. 

“ Nonsense — go and send that telegram at once. I do 
not want to be kept waiting a week for a sight of my 
family.” 

With a deep, good humoured laugh he pushed Orsino 
out of the door in front of him and went off to his own 
quarters. 

In due time the family returned from Saracinesca and 
the gloomy old palace waked to life again. Corona and 
her husband were both struck by the change in Orsino’s 
appearance, which indeed contrasted strongly with their 
own, refreshed and strengthened as they were by the keen 
mountain air, the endless out-of-door life, the manifold 
occupations of people deeply interested in the welfare of 
those around them and supremely conscious of their own 
power to produce good results in their own way. When 
they all came back, Orsino himself felt how jaded and 
worn he was as compared with them. 

Before twelve hours had gone by, he found himself 
alone with his mother. Strange to say he had not looked 
forward to the interview with pleasure. The bond of 
sympathy which had so closely united the two during the 
spring seemed weakened, and Orsino would, if possible, 
have put off the renewal of intimate converse which he 
knew to be inevitable. But that could not be done. 

It would not be hard to find reasons for hi^ wishing to 
avoid his mother. Formerly his daily tale had been one 
of success, of hope, of ever increasing confidence. Now he 
had nothing to tell of but danger and anxiety for the 
future, and he was not without a suspicion that she would 
strongly disapprove of his allowing himself to be kept 


396 


DON ORSINO. 


afloat by Del Fence’s personal influence, and perhaps by 
his personal aid. It was hard to begin daily intercourse 
on a basis of things so different from that which had 
seemed solid and safe when they had last talked together. 
He had learned to bear his own troubles bravely, too, and 
there was something which he associated with weakness 
in the idea of asking sympathy for them now. He would 
rather have been left alone. 

Deep down, too, was the consciousness of all that had 
happened between himself and Maria Consuelo since his 
mother’s departure. Another suffering, another and dis- 
tinctly different misfortune, to be borne better in silence 
than under question even of the most affectionate kind. 
His grandfather had indeed guessed at both truths and 
had taxed him with them at once, but that was quite 
another matter. He knew that the old gentleman would 
never refer again to what he had learned, and he appre- 
ciated the generous offer of help, of which he would 
never avail himself, in a way in which he could not appre- 
ciate an assistance even more lovingly proffered, perhaps, 
but which must be asked for by a confession of his own 
failure. 

On the other hand, he was incapable of distorting the 
facts in any way so as to make his mother believe him 
more successful than he actually was. There was nothing 
dishonest, perhaps, in pretending to be hopeful when he 
really had little hope, but he could not have represented 
the condition of the business otherwise than as it really 
stood. 

The interview was a long one, and Corona’s dark face 
grew grave if not despondent as he explained to her one 
point after another, taking especial care to elucidate all 
that bore ui)Q his relations with Del Fence. It was most 
important that his mother should understand how he was 
placed, and how Del Fence’s continued advances of money 
were not to be regarded in the light of a personal favour, 
but as a speculation in which Ugo would probably get the 
best of the bargain. Orsino knew how sens! ti ve his mother 


BON ORSINO. 


397 


would be on such a point, and dreaded the moment when 
she should begin to think that he was laying himself under 
obligations beyond the strict limits of business. 

Corona leaned back in her low seat and covered her 
eyes with one hand for a moment, in deep thought. 
Orsino waited anxiously for her to speak. 

“ My dear,” she said at last, “ you make it very clear, 
and I understand you perfectly. Nevertheless, it seems to 
me that your position is not very dignified, considering 
who you are, and what Del Fence is. Do you not think 
so yourself ? ” 

Orsino flushed a little. She had not put the point as 
he had expected, and her words told upon him. 

“When I entered business, I put my dignity in my 
pocket,” he answered, with a forced laugh. “ There cannot 
be much of it in business, at the best.” 

His mother’s black eyes seemed to grow blacker, and 
the delicate nostril quivered a little. 

“ If that is true, I wish you had never meddled in these 
affairs,” she said, proudly. “ But you talked differently 
last spring, and you made me see it all in another way. 
You made me feel, on the contrary that in doing something 
for yourself, in showing that you were able to accomplish 
something, in asserting your independence, you were 
making yourself more worthy of respect — and I have 
respected you accordingly.” 

“ Exactly,” answered Orsino, catching at the old argu- 
ment. “That is just what I wished to do. What I said 
a moment since was in the way of a generality. Business 
means a struggle for money, I suppose, and that, in itself, 
is not dignified. But it is not dishonourable. After all, 
the means may justify the end.” 

“ I hate that saying ! ” exclaimed Corona hotly. “ I 
wish you were free of the whole affair.” ^ 

“ So do I, with all my heart ! ” 

A short silence followed. 

“If I had known all this three months ago,” Corona 
resumed, “ I would have taken the money and given it to 


398 


DON OHSINO. 


you, to clear yourself. I thought you were succeeding 
and I have used all the funds I could gather to buy the 
Montevarchi’s property between us and Affile and in 
planting eucalyptus trees in that low land of mine where 
the people have suffered so much from fever. I have 
nothing at my disposal unless I borrow. Why did you 
not tell me the truth in the summer, Orsino ? Why have 
you let me imagine that you were prospering all along, 
when you have been and are at the point of failure ? It 
is too bad ” 

She broke off suddenly and clasped her hands together 
on her knee. 

“ It is only lately that business has gone so badly,” said 
Orsino. 

“ It was all wrong from the beginning ! I should never 
have encouraged you. Your father was right, as he 
always is — and now you must tell him so.” 

But Orsino refused to go to his father, except in the 
last extremity. He represented that it was better, and 
more dignified, since Corona insisted upon the point of 
dignity, to fight the battle alone so long as there was a 
chance of winning. His mother, on the other hand, main- 
tained that he should free himself at once and at any cost. 
A few months earlier he could easily have persuaded her 
that he was right ; but she seemed changed since he had 
parted from her, and he fancied that his father’s influence 
had been at work with her. This he resented bitterly. 
It must be remembered, too, that he had begun the inter- 
view with a preconceived prejudice, expecting it to turn 
out badly, so that he was the more ready to allow matters 
to take an unfavourable turn. 

The result was not a decided break in his relations with 
his mother, but a state of things more irritating than any 
open differ^Lce could have been. From that time Corona 
discouraged him, and never ceased to advise him to go to 
his father and ask frankly for enough money to clear him 
outright. Orsino, on his part, obstinately refused to 
apply to any one for help, as long as Del Ferice continued 
to advance him money. 


DON ORSINO. 


399 


In those months which followed there were few indeed 
who did not suffer in the almost universal financial cata- 
clysm. All that Contini and others, older and wiser than 
he, had predicted, took place, and more also. The banks 
refused discount, even upon the best paper, saying with 
justice that they were obliged to hold their funds in 
reserve at such a time. The works stopped almost every- 
where. It was impossible to raise money. Thousands 
upon thousands of workmen who had come from great 
distances during the past two or three years were suddenly 
thrown out of work, penniless in the streets and many 
of them burdened with wives and children. There were 
one or two small riots and there was much demonstration, 
but, on the whole, the poor masons behaved very well. 
The government and the municipality did what they could 
— what governments and municipalities can do when 
hampered at every turn by the most complicated and ill- 
considered machinery of administration ever invented in 
any country. The starving workmen were by slow degrees 
got out of the city and sent back to starve out of sight 
in their native places. The emigration was enormous 
in all directions. 

The dismal ruins of that new city which was to have 
been built and which never reached completion are visi- 
ble everywhere. Houses seven stories high, abandoned 
within a month of completion rise uninhabited and un- 
inhabitable out of a rank growth of weeds, amidst heaps 
of rubbish, staring down at the broad, desolate streets 
where the vigorous grass pushes its way up through the 
loose stones of the unrolled metalling. Amidst heavy low 
walls which were to have been the ground stories of 
palaces, a few ragged children play in the sun, a lean 
donkey crops the thistles, or if near to a few occupied 
dwellings, a wine seller makes a booth of straw and 
chestnut boughs and dispenses a poisonous, sour drink 
to those who will buy. But that is only in the warm 
months. The winter winds blow the wretched booth to 
pieces and increase the desolation. Further on, tall 


400 


DON ORSINO. 


fagades rise suddenly up, the blue sky gleaming through 
their windows, the green moss already growing upon 
their naked stones and bricks. The Barbarini of the 
future, if any should arise, will not need to despoil the 
Colosseum to quarry material for their palaces. If, as 
the old pasquinade had it the Barbarini did what the 
Barbarians did not, how much worse than barbarians 
have these modern civilizers done ! 

The distress was very great in the early months of 
1889. The satisfaction which many of the new men 
would have felt at the ruin of great old families was 
effectually neutralized by their own financial destruc- 
tion. Princes, bankers, contractors and master masons 
went down together in the general bankruptcy. Ugo 
Del Ferice survived and with him Andrea Contini and 
Company, and doubtless other small firms which he pro- 
tected for his own ends. San Giacinto, calm, far-seeing, 
and keen as an eagle, surveyed the chaos from the height 
of his magnificent fortune, unmoved and immovable, 
awaiting the lowest ebb of the tide. The Saracinesca 
looked on, hampered a little by the sudden fall in rents 
and other sources of their income, but still superior to 
events, though secretly anxious about Orsino’s affairs, 
and daily expecting that he must fail. 

And Orsino himself had changed, as was natural 
enough. He was learning to seem what he was not, and 
those who have learned that lesson know how it influ- 
ences the real man whom no one can judge but himself. 
So long as there had been one person in his life with 
whom he could live in perfect sympathy he had given 
himself little trouble about his outward behaviour. So 
long as he had felt that, come what might, his mother 
was on his side, he had not thought it worth his while 
not to be natural with every one, according to his 
humour. He was wrong, no doubt, in fancying that 
Corona had deserted him. But he had already suffered 
a loss, in Maria Consuelo, which had at the time seemed 
the greatest conceivable, and the pain he had suffered 


DON ORSINO. 


401 


then, together with the deep though unacknowledged 
wound to his vanity, had predisposed him to believe that 
he was destined to be friendless. The consequence was 
that a very slight break in the perfect understanding 
which had so long existed between him and his mother 
had produced serious results. He now felt that he was 
completely alone, and like most lonely men of sound 
character he acquired the habit of keeping his troubles 
entirely to himself, while affecting an almost unnaturally 
quiet and equable manner with those around him.. On 
the whole, he found that his life was easier when he 
lived it on this principle. He found that he was more 
careful in his actions since he had a part to sustain, and 
that his opinion carried more weight since he expressed 
it more cautiously and seemed less liable to fluctuations 
of mood and temper. The change in his character was 
more apparent than real, perhaps, as changes of charac- 
ter generally are when not in the way of logical develop- 
ment ; but the constant thought of appearances reacts 
upon the inner nature in the end, and much which at 
first is only put on, becomes a habit next, and ends by 
taking the place of an impulse. 

Orsino was aware that his chief preoccupation was 
identical with that which absorbed his mother’s thoughts. 
He wished to free himself from the business in which 
he was so deeply involved, and which still prospered so 
strangely in spite of the general ruin. But here the com- 
munity of ideas ended. He wished to free himself in his 
own way, without humiliating himself by going to his 
father for help. Meanwhile, too, Sant’ Ilario himself had 
his doubts concerning his own judgment. It was incon- 
ceivable to him that Del Fence could be losing money to 
oblige Orsino, and if he had desired to ruin him he could 
have done so with ease a hundred times in the past 
months. It might be, he said to himself, that Orsino had 
after all, a surprising genius for affairs and had weathered 
the storm in the face of tremendous difficulties. Orsino 
saw the belief growing in his father’s mind, and the cer- 

2d 


402 


DON ORSINO. 


tainty that it was there did not dispose him to throw up 
the fight and acknowledge himself beaten. 

The Saracinesca were one of the very few Roman fami- 
lies in which there is a tradition in favour of non-inter- 
ference with the action of children already of age. The 
consequence was that although the old Prince, Giovanni 
and his wife, all three felt considerable anxiety, they did 
nothing to hamper Orsino’s action, beyond an occasionally 
repeated warning to be careful. That his occupation was 
distasteful to them, they did not conceal, but he met their 
expressions of opinion with perfect equanimity and out- 
ward good humour, even when his mother, once his 
staunch ally, openly advised him to give up business and 
travel for a year. Their prejudice was certainly not un- 
natural, and had been strengthened by the perusal of the 
unsavoury details published by the papers at each new 
bankruptcy during the year. But they found Orsino now 
always the same, always quiet, good-humoured and firm 
in his projects. 

Andrea Contini had not been very exact in his calcula- 
tion of the date at which the last door and the last win- 
dow would be placed in the last of the houses which he 
and Orsino had undertaken to build. The disturbance in 
business might account for the delay. At all events it 
was late in April* of the following year before the work 
was completed. Then Orsino went to Del Perice. 

“Of course,” he said, maintaining the appearance of 
calm which had now become habitual with him, “I can- 
not expect to pay what I owe the bank, unless I can effect 
a sale of these buildings. You have known that, all along, 
as well as I. The question is, can they be sold ? ” 

“You have no applicant, then?” Del Ferice looked 
grave and somewhat surprised. 

“FTo. We have received no offer.” 

“ You owe the bank a very large sum on these buildings, 
Don Orsino.” 

“ Secured by mortgages on them,” answered the young 
man quietly, but preparing for trouble. 


DON ORSINO. 


403 


“Just so. Secured by mortgages. But if tbe bank 
should foreclose within the next few months, and if the 
buildings do not realize the amount secured, Contini and 
Company are liable for the difference.” 

“ I know that.” 

“ And the market is very bad, Don Orsino, and shows 
no signs of improvement.” 

“ On the other hand the houses are finished, habitable, 
and can be let immediately.” 

“ They are certainly finished. You must be aware that 
the bank has continued to advance the sums necessary for 
two reasons. Firstly, because an expensive but habitable 
dwelling is better than a cheap one with no roof. Sec- 
ondly, because in doing business with Andrea Contini and 
Company we have been dealing with the only really hon- 
est and economical firm in Borne.” 

Orsino smiled vaguely, but said nothing. He had not 
much faith in Del Fence’s flattery. 

“ But that,” continued the latter, “ does not dispense 
us from the necessity of realising what is owing to us — I 
mean the bank — either in money, or in an equivalent — 
or in an equivalent,” he repeated, thoughtfully rolling a 
big silver pencil case backward and forward upon the 
table under his fat white hand. 

“ Evidently,” assented Orsino. “ Unfortunately, at the 
present time, there seems to be no equivalent for ready 
money.” 

“ISTo — no — perhaps not,” said Ugo, apparently becom- 
ing more and more absorbed in his own thoughts. “ And 
yet,” he added, after a little pause, “ an arrangement may 
be possible. The houses certainly possess advantages 
over much of this wretched property which is thrown 
upon the market. The position is good and the work 
is good. Your work is very good, Don Orsino. You 
know that better than I. Yes — the houses have advan- 
tages, I admit. The bank has a great deal of waste 
masonry on its hands, Don Orsino — more than I like to 
think of.” 


404 


DON OESINO. 


“ Unfortunately, again, the time for improving such 
property is gone by.” 

“ It is never too late to mend, says the proverb,” re- 
torted Del Ferice with a smile. “ I have a proposition to 
make. I will state it clearly. If it is not to our mutual 
advantage, I think neither of us will lose so much by it 
as we should lose in other ways. It is simply this. We 
will cry quits. You have a small account current with 
the bank, and you must sacrifice the credit balance — it is 
not much, I find — about thirty-five thousand.” 

“That was chiefly the profit on the first contract,” 
observed Orsino. 

“Precisely. It will help to cover the bank’s loss on 
this. It will help, because when I say we will cry quits, 
I mean that you shall receive an equivalent for your 
houses — a nominal equivalent of course, which the bank 
nominally takes back as payment of the mortgages.” 

“ That is not very clear,” said Orsino. “ I do not under- 
stand you.” 

“No,” laughed Del Ferice. “ I admit that it is not. It 
represented rather my own view of the transaction than 
the practical side. But I will explain myself beyond the 
possibility of mistake. The bank takes the houses and 
your cash balance and cancels the mortgages. You are 
then released from all debt and all obligation upon the 
old contract. But the bank makes one condition which 
is important. You must buy from the bank, on mort- 
gage of course, certain unfinished buildings which it 
now owns, and you — Andrea Contini and Company — 
must take a contract to complete them within a given 
time, the bank advancing you money as before upon 
notes of hand, secured by subsequent and successive 
mortgages.” 

Orsino was silent. He saw that if he accepted, Del 
Ferice was receiving the work of a whole year and more 
without allowing the smallest profit to the workers, 
besides absorbing the profits of a previous successfully 
executed contract, and besides taking it for granted that 


DON ORSINO. 


405 


the existing mortgages only just covered the value of 
the buildings. If, as was probable, Del Ferice had 
means of either selling or letting the houses, he stood 
to make an enormous profit. He saw, too, that if he 
accepted now, he must in all likelihood be driven to 
accept similar conditions on a future occasion, and that 
he would be binding Andrea Contini and himself to work, 
and to work hard, for nothing and perhaps during years. 

But he saw also that the only alternative was an appeal 
to his father, or bankruptcy which ultimately meant the 
same thing. Del Ferice spoke again. 

“ Whether you agree, or whether you prefer a foreclos- 
ure, we shall both lose. But we should lose more by the 
latter course. In the interests of the bank I trust that 
you will accept. You see how frankly I speak about it. 
In the interests of the bank. But then, I need not re- 
mind you that it would hardly be fair to let us lose heav- 
ily when you can make the loss relatively a slight one — 
considering how the bank has behaved to you, and to you 
alone, throughout this fatal year.” 

“ I will give you an answer to-morrow,” said Orsino. 

He thought of poor Contini who would find that he 
had worked for nothing during a whole year. But then, 
it would be easy for Orsino to give Contini a sum of 
money out of his private resources. Anything was better 
than giving up the struggle and applying to his father. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Orsino was to all intents and purposes without a 
friend. How far circumstances had contributed to this 
result and how far he himself was to blame for his lonely 
state, those may judge who have followed his history to 
this point. His grandfather had indeed offered him help 
and in a way to make it acceptable if he had felt that he 


406 


DON OESINO. 


could accept it at all. But the old Prince did not in the 
least understand the business nor the situation. More- 
over a young fellow of two or three and twenty does not 
look for a friend in the person of a man sixty years older 
than himself. While maintaining the most uniformly 
good relations in his home, Orsino felt himself estranged 
from his father and mother. His brothers were too 
young, and were generally away from home at school 
and college, and he had no sisters. Beyond the walls of 
the Palazzo Saracinesca, San Giacinto was the only man 
whom he would willingly have consulted; but San Gia- 
cinto was of all men the one least inclined to intimacy 
with his neighbours, and, after all, as Orsino reflected, 
he would probably repeat the advice he had already given, 
if he vouchsafed counsel of any kind. 

He thought of all his acquaintance and came to the 
conclusion that he was in reality in terms more closely 
approaching to friendship with Andrea Contini than with 
any man of his own class. Yet he would have hesitated 
to call the architect his friend, as he would have found it 
impossible to confide in him concerning any detail of his 
own private life. 

At a time when most young men are making friends, 
Orsino had been hindered from the formation of such ties 
by the two great interests which had absorbed his exist- 
ence, his attachment and subsequent love for Maria 
Consuelo, and the business at which he had worked so 
steadily. He had lost Maria Consuelo, in whom he 
would have confided as he had often done before, and at 
the present important juncture he stood quite alone. 

He felt that he was no match for Del Fence. The 
keen banker was making use of him for his own purposes 
in a way which neither Orsino nor Contini had ever 
suspected. It could not be supposed that Ugo had fore- 
seen from the first the advantage he might reap from the 
firm he had created and which was so wholly dependent 
on him. Orsino might have turned out ignorant and 
incapable. Contini might have proved idle and even 


BON OESINO. 


407 


dishonest. But, instead of this, the experiment had 
succeeded admirably and Ugo found himself possessed 
of an instrument, as it were, precisely adapted to his 
end, which was to make worthless property valuable at 
the smallest possible expense, in fact, at the lowest cost 
price. He had secured a first-rate architect and a first- 
rate accountant, both men of spotless integrity, both 
young, energetic and unusually industrious. He paid 
nothing for their services and he entirely controlled 
their expenditure. It was clear that he would do his 
utmost to maintain an arrangement so immensely profit- 
able to himself. If Orsino had realised exactly how 
profitable it was, he might have forced Del Fence to 
share the gain with him, and would have done so for the 
sake of Contini, if not for his own. He suspected, in- 
deed, that Ugo was certain beforehand, in each case, of 
selling or letting the houses, but he had no proof of the 
fact. Ugo did not leave everything to his confidential 
clerk, and the secrets he kept to himself were well kept. 

Orsino consulted Contini, as a matter of necessity, 
before accepting Del Fence’s last offer. The architect 
went into a tragic-comic rage, bit his cigar through sev- 
eral times, ground his teeth, drank several glasses of cold 
water, talked of the blood of Cola di Rienzo, vowed ven- 
geance on Del Ferice and finally submitted. 

The signing of the new contract determined the course 
of Orsino’s life for another year. It is surprising to see, 
in the existence of others, how periods of monotonous 
calm succeed seasons of storm and danger. In our own 
they do not astonish us so much, if at all. Orsino con- 
tinued to work hard, to live regularly and to do all those 
things which, under the circumstances he ought to have 
done and earned the reputation of being a model young 
man, a fact which surprised him on one or two occasions 
when it came to his ears. Yet when he reflected upon 
it, he saw that he was in reality not like other young 
men, and that his conduct was undoubtedly abnormally 
good as viewed by those around him. His grandfather 


408 


DON ORSINO. 


began to look upon him as something almost unnatural 
and more than once hinted to Giovanni that the boy, as 
he still called him, ought to behave like other boys. 

“ He is more like San Giacinto than any of us,” said 
Giovanni, thoughtfully. “ He has taken after that 
branch.” 

“If that is the case, he might have done worse,” 
answered the old man. “ I like San Giacinto. But you 
always judge superficially, Giovanni — you always did. 
And the worst of it is, you are always perfectly well 
satisfied with your own judgments.” 

“Possibly. I have certainly not accepted those of 
others.” 

“And the result is that you are turning into an oyster 
— and Orsino has begun to turn into an oyster, too, and 
the other boys will follow his example — a perfect oyster- 
bed ! Go and take Orsino by the throat and shake 
him ” 

“ I regret to say that I am physically not equal to that 
feat,” said Giovanni with a laugh. 

“ I should be ! ” exclaimed the aged Prince, doubling 
his hard hand and bringing it down on the table, while 
his bright eyes gleamed. “ Go and shake him, and tell 
him to give up this dirty building business — make him 
give it up, buy him out of it, put plenty of money into 
his pockets and send him off to amuse himself ! You 
and Corona have made a prig of him, and business is 
making an oyster of him, and he will be a hopeless idiot 
before you realise it ! Stir him, shake him, make him 
move ! I hate your furniture-man — who is always in the 
right place and always ready to be sat upon ! ” 

“ If you can persuade him to give up affairs I have no 
objection.” 

“ Persuade him ! I never knew a man worth speaking 
to who could be persuaded to anything he did not like. 
Make him — that is the way.” 

“ But since he is behaving himself and is occupied — 
that is better than the lives all these young fellows are 
leading.” 


DON ORSINO. 


409 


“ Do not argue with me, Giovanni, I hate it. Besides, 
your reason is worth nothing at all. Did I spend my 
youth over accounts, in the society of an architect ? Did 
I put water in my wine and sit up like a model little boy 
at my papa’s table and spend my evenings in carrying 
my mamma’s fan ? Nonsense ! And yet all that was 
expected in my day, in a way it is not expected now. 
Look at yourself. You are bad enough — dull enough, 
I mean. Did you waste the best years of your life in 
counting bricks and measuring mortar ? ” 

“You say that you hate argument, and yet you are 
arguing. But Orsino shall please himself, as I did, and 
in his own way. I will certainly not interfere.” 

“ Because you know you can do nothing with him ! ” 
retorted old Saracinesca contemptuously. 

Giovanni laughed. Twenty years earlier he would 
have lost his temper to no purpose. But twenty years 
of unruffled existence had changed him. 

“ You are not the man you were,” grumbled his father. 

“No. I have been too happy, far too long, to be much 
like what I was at thirty.” 

“ And do you mean to say I am not happy, and have 
not been happy, and do not mean to be happy, and do 
not wish everybody to be happy, so long as this old 
machine hangs together ? What nonsense you talk, my 
boy. Go and make love to your wife. That is all you 
are fit for ! ” 

Discussions of this kind were not unfrequent but of 
course led to nothing. As a matter of fact Sant’ Ilario 
was quite right in believing interference useless. It 
would have been impossible. He was no more able to 
change Orsino’s determination than he was physically 
capable of shaking him. Not that Sant’ Ilario was weak, 
physically or morally, nor ever had been. But* his son 
had grown up to be stronger than he. 

Twelve months passed away. During that time the 
young man worked, as he had worked before, regularly 
and untiringly. But his object now was to free himself, 


410 


DON ORSINO. 


and lie no longer hoped to make a fortune or to do any 
thing beyond the strict execution of the contract he had 
in hand, determined if possible to avoid taking another. 
With a coolness and self-denial beyond his years, he 
systematically hoarded the allowance he received from 
his father, in order to put together a sum of money for 
poor Contini. He made economies everywhere, refused 
to go into society and spent his evenings in reading. 
His acquired manner stood him in good stead, but he 
could not bear more than a limited amount of the daily 
talk in the family. Being witty, rather than gay, if he 
could be said to be either, he found himself inclined 
rather to be bitter than amusing when he was wearied 
by the monotonous conversation of others. He knew 
this to be a mistake and controlled himself, taking 
refuge in solitude and books when he could control 
himself no longer. 

Whether he loved Maria Consuelo still, or not, it was 
clear that he was not inclined to love any one else for 
the present. The tolerably harmless dissipation and 
wildness of the two or three years he had spent in 
England could not account for such a period of coldness 
as followed his separation from Maria Consuelo. He 
had by no means exhausted the pleasures of life and his 
capacity for enjoyment could not even be said to have 
reached its height. But he avoided the society of women 
even more consistently than he shunned the club and 
the card table. 

More than a year had gone by since he had heard 
from Maria Consuelo. He met Spicca from time to time, 
looking now as though he had not a day to live, but 
neither of them mentioned past events. The Romans 
had talked a little of her sudden change of plans, for it 
had been known that she had begun to furnish a large 
apartment for the winter of the previous year, and had 
then very unaccountably changed her mind and left the 
place in the hands of an agent to be sub-let. People 
said she had lost her fortune. Then she had been for- 


DON ORSINO. 


411 


gotten in the general disaster that followed, and no one 
had taken the trouble to remember her since then. 
Even Gouache, who had once been so enthusiastic over 
her portrait, did not seem to know or care what had 
become of her. Once only, and quite accidentally, Or- 
sino had authentic information of her whereabouts. He 
took up an English society journal one evening and 
glanced idly over the paragraphs. Maria Consuelo’s 
name arrested his attention. A certain very high and 
mighty old lady of royal lineage was about to travel in 
Egypt during the winter. “ Her Royal Highness,” said 
the paper, “ will be accompanied by the Countess d’Aran- 
juez d’Aragona.” Orsino’s hand shook a little as he laid 
the sheet aside, and he was pale when he rose a few 
moments later and went off to his own room. He could 
not help wondering why Maria Consuelo was styled by 
a title to which she certainly had a legal right, but which 
she had never before used, and he wondered still more 
why she travelled in Egypt with an old princess who was 
generally said to be anything but an agreeable com- 
panion, and was reported to be quite deaf. But on the 
whole he thought little of the information itself. It 
was the sight of Maria Consuelo’s name which had 
moved him, and he was not altogether himself for several 
days. The impression wore off before long, and he fol- 
lowed the round of his monotonous life as before. 

Early in the month of March in the year 1890, he was 
seated alone in his room one evening before dinner. The 
great contract he had undertaken was almost finished, 
and he knew that within two months he would be placed 
in the same difficult position from which he had formerly 
so signally failed to extricate himself. That he and Con- 
tini had executed the terms of the contract with scrupu- 
lous and conscientious nicety did not better the position. 
That they had made the most strenuous efforts to find 
purchasers for the property, as they had a right to do if 
they could, and had failed, made the position hopeless or 
almost as bad as that. Whether they liked it or not, 


412 


DON ORSINO. 


Del Ferice had so arranged that the great mass of their 
acceptances should fall due about the time when the 
work would be finished. To mortgage on the same 
terms or anything approaching the same terms with any 
other bank was out of the question, so that they had no 
hope of holding the property for the purpose of leasing 
it. Even if Orsino could have contemplated for a moment 
such an act of bad faith as wilfully retarding the work 
in order to gain a renewal of the bills, such a course 
could have led to no actual improvement in the situation. 
The property was unsaleable and Del Ferice knew it, and 
had no intention of selling it. He meant to keep it for 
himself and let it, as a permanent source of income. It 
would not have cost him in the end one half of its actual 
value, and was exceptionally good property. Orsino saw 
how hopeless it was to attempt resistance, unless he 
would resign himself to voting an appeal to his own peo- 
ple, and this, as of old, he was resolved not to do. 

He was reflecting upon his life of bondage when a 
servant brought him a letter. He tossed it aside without 
looking at it, but it chanced to slip from the polished 
table and fall to the ground. As he picked it up his 
attention was arrested by the handwriting and by the 
stamp. The stamp was Egyptian and the writing was 
that of Maria Consuelo. He started, tore open the 
envelope and took out a letter of many pages, written on 
thin paper. At first he found it hard to follow the char- 
acters, and his heart beat at a rate which annoyed him. 
He rose, walked the length of the room and back again, 
sat down in another seat close to the lamp and read the 
letter steadily from beginning to end. 

“ My dear Friend — You may, perhaps, be surprised at hear- 
ing from me after so long a time. I received your last letter. 
How long ago was that? Twelve, fourteen, fifteen months? I 
do not know. It is as well to forget, since I at least would rather 
not remember what you wrote. And I write now — why? 
Simply because I have the impulse to do so. That is the best 
of all reasons. I wish to hear from you, which is selfish ; and 


DON ORSINO. 


413 


I wish to hear about you, which is not. Are you still working 
at that business in which you were so much interested ? Or 
have you given it up and gone back to the life you used to hate 
so thoroughly ? I would like to know. Do you remember how 
angry I was long ago, because you agreed to meet Del Ferice 
in my drawing-room ? I was very wrong, for the meeting led 
to many good results. I like to think that you are not quite 
like all the young men of your set, who do nothing — and cannot 
even do that gracefully. I think you used those very words 
about yourself, once upon a time. But you proved that you 
could live a very different life if you chose. I hope you are 
living it still. 

“ And so poor Donna Tullia is dead — has been dead a year 
and a half ! I wrote Del Ferice a long letter when I got the 
news. He answered me. He is not as bad as you used to 
think, for he was terribly pained by his loss — I could see that 
well enough in what he wrote though there was nothing exag- 
gerated or desperate in the phrases. In fact there were no 
phrases at all. I wish I had kept the letter to send to you, but 
I never keep letters. Poor Donna Tullia ! I cannot imagine 
Rome without her. It would certainly not be the same place 
to me, for she was uniformly kind and thoughtful where I was 
concerned, whatever she may have been to others. 

“ Echoes reach me from time to time in different parts of the 
world, as I travel, and Rome seems to be changed in many 
ways. They say the ruin was dreadful when the crash came. 
I suppose you gave up business then, as was natural, since they 
say there is no more business to do. But I would be glad to 
know that nothing disagreeable happened to you in the financial 
storm. I confess to having felt an unaccountable anxiety about 
you of late. Perhaps that is why I write and why I hope for an 
answer at once. I have always looked upon presentiments and 
forewarnings and all such intimations as utterly false and absurd, 
and I do not really believe that anything has happened or is 
happening to distress you. But it is our woman’s privilege to 
be inconsistent, and we should be still more inconsistent if we 
did not use it. Besides I have felt the same vague disquietude 
about you more than once before and have not written. Perhaps 
I should not write even now unless I had a great deal more 
time at my disposal than I know what to do with. Who knows ? 
If you are busy, write a word on a post-card, just to say that 
nothing is the matter. Here in Egypt we do not realise what 
time means, and certainly not that it can ever mean money. 


414 


DON ORSINO. 


“ It is an idle life, less idle for me perhaps than for some of 
those about me, but even for me not over -full of occupations. 
The climate occupies all the time not actually spent in eating, 
sleeping and visiting ruins. It is fair, I suppose, to tell you 
something of myself since I ask for news of you. I will tell 
you what I can. 

“I am travelling with an old lady, as her companion — not 
exactly out of inclination and yet not exactly out of duty. Is 
that too mysterious ? Do you see me as Companion and general 
amuser to an old lady — over seventy years of age ? No. I pre- 
sume not. And I am not with her by necessity either, for I 
have not suffered any losses. On the contrary, since I dismissed 
a certain person — an attendant, we will call her — from my ser- 
vice, it seems to me that my income is doubled. The attendant, 
by the bye, has opened a hotel on the Lake of Como. Perhaps 
you, who are so good a man of business, may see some connex- 
ion between these simple facts. I was never good at managing 
money, nor at understanding what it meant. It seems that I 
have not inherited all the family talents. 

“ But I return to Egypt, to the Nile, to this dahabiyah, on 
board of which it has pleased the fates to dispose my existence 
for the present. I am not called a companion, but a lady in 
waiting, which would be only another term for the same thing, 
if I were not really very much attached to the Princess, old 
and deaf as she is. And that is saying a great deal. No one 
knows what deafness means who has not read aloud to a deaf 
person, which is what I do every day. I do not think I ever 
told you about her. I have known her all my life, ever since I 
was a little girl in the convent in Vienna. She used to come 
and see me and bring me good things — and books of prayers — 
I remember especially a box of candied fruits which she told me 
came from Iview. I have never eaten any like them since. I 
wonder how many sincere affections between young and old 
people owe their existence originally to a confectioner ! 

“When I left Rome, I met her again in Nice. She was 
there with the Prince, who was in wretched health and who 
died soon afterwards. He never was so fond of me as she was. 
After his death, she asked me to stay with her as long as I 
would. I do not think I shall leave her again so long as she 
lives. She treats me like her own child — or rather, her grand- 
child — and besides, the life suits me very well. I am, really, 
perfectly independent, and yet I am perfectly protected. I 
shall not repeat the experiment of living alone for three years, 
until I am much older. 


DON ORSINO. 


415 


“It is a rather strange friendship. My Princess knows all 
about me — all that you know. I told her one day and she did 
not seem at all surprised. I thought I owed her the truth 
about myself, since I was to live with her, and since she had 
always been so kind to me. She says I remind her of her 
daughter, the poor young Princess Marie, who died nearly thirty 
years ago. In Nice, too, like her father, poor girl. She was 
only just nineteen, and very beautiful they say. I suppose the 
dear good old lady fancies she sees some resemblance even now, 
though I am so much older than her daughter was when she 
died. There is the origin of our friendship — the trivial and 
the tragic — confectionery and death — a box of candied fruits 
and an irreparable loss I If there were no contrasts what would 
the world be ? All one or the other, I suppose. All death, or 
all Kiew sweetmeats. 

“ I suppose you know what life in Egypt is like. If you 
have not tried it yourself, your friends have and can describe it 
to you. I will certainly not inflict my impressions upon your 
friendship. It would be rather a severe test — perhaps yours 
would not bear it, and then I should be sorry. 

“Do you know? I like to think that I have a friend in 
you. I like to remember the time when you used to talk to 
me of all your plans — the dear old time! I would rather 
remember that than much which came afterwards. You have 
forgiven me for all I did, and are glad, now, that I did it. Yes, 
I can fancy your smile. You do not see yourself, Prince Sara- 
cinesca, Prince Sant’ Ilario, Duke of Whatever-it-may-be, Lord 
of ever so many What-are-their-names, Prince of the Holy 
Roman Empire, Grandee of Spain of the First Class, Knight of 
Malta and Hereditary Something to the Holy See — in short the 
tremendous personage you will one day be — you do not exactly 
see yourself as the son-in-law of the Signora Lucrezia Ferris, 
proprietor of a tourist’s hotel on the Lake of Como ! Confess 
that the idea was an absurdity ! As for me, I will confess that 
I did very wrong. Had I known all the truth on that after- 
noon — do you remember the thunderstorm? I would have 
saved you much, and I should have saved myself — well — some- 
thing. But we have better things to do than to run after 
shadows. Perhaps it is as well not even to think of them. It 
is all over now. Whatever you may think of it all, forgive your 
old friend, Maria Consuelo d’A.” 

Orsino read the long letter to the end, and sat a while 


416 


DON ORSINO. 


thinking over the contents. Two points in it struck him 
especially. In the first place it was not the letter of a 
woman who wished to call back a man she had dismissed. 
There was no sentiment in it, or next to none. She pro- 
fessed herself contented in her life, if not happy, and 
in one sentence she brought before him the enormous 
absurdity of the marriage he had once contemplated. He 
had more than once been ashamed of not making some 
further direct effort to win her again. He was now sud- 
denly conscious of the great influence which her first let- 
ter, containing the statement of her parentage, had really 
exercised over him. Strangely enough, what she now 
wrote reconciled him, as it were, with himself. It had 
turned out best, after all. 

That he loved her still, he felt sure, as he held in his 
hand the pages she had written and felt the old thrill he 
knew so well in his fingers, and the old, quick beating of 
the heart. But he acknowledged gladly — too gladly, per- 
haps — that he had done well to let her go. 

Then came the second impression. “ I like to remem- 
ber the time when you used to talk to me of all your 
plans.” The words rang in his ears and called up deli- 
cious visions of the past, soft hours spent by her side while 
she listened with something warmer than patience to the 
outpouring of his young hopes and aspirations. She, at 
least, had understood him, and encouraged him, and 
strengthened him with her sympathy. And why not 
now, if then? Why should she not understand him 
now, when he most needed a friend, and give him sym- 
pathy now, when he stood most in need of it ? She was 
in Egypt and he in Borne, it was true. But what of that ? 
If she could write to him, he could write to her, and she 
could answer him again. Ho one had ever felt with him 
as she had. 

He did not hesitate long. On that same evening, after 
dinner, he went back to his own room and wrote to her. 
It was a little hard at first, but, as the ink flowed, he ex- 
pressed himself better and more clearly. With an odd 


don ORsnsro. 


417 


sort of caution, which, had grown upon him of late, he 
tried to make his letter take a form as similar to hers as 
possible. 

“My dear Friend ” (he wrote) — “If people always yielded 
to their impulses as you have done in writing to me, there would 
be more good fellowship and less loneliness in the world. It 
would not be easy for me to tell you how great a pleasure you 
have given me. Perhaps, hereafter, I may compare it to your 
own memory of the Kiew candied fruits 1 For the present I do 
not find a worthy comparison to my hand. 

“You ask many questions. I propose to answer them all. 
Will you have the patience to read what I write ? I hope so, 
for the sake of the time when I used to talk to you of all my 
plans — and which you say you like to remember. For another 
reason, too. I have never felt so lonely in my life as I feel now, 
nor so much in need of a friend — not a helping friend, but one 
to whom I can speak a little freely. I am very much alone. A 
sort of estrangement has grown up between my mother and me, 
and she no longer takes my side in all I want to do, as she did 
once. 

“ I will be quite plain. I will tell you all my troubles, 
because there is not another person in the world to whom I 
could tell them — and because I know that they will not trouble 
you. You will feel a little friendly sympathy, and that will be 
enough. But you will feel no pain. After all, I daresay that I 
exaggerate, and that there is nothing so very painful in the mat- 
ter, as it will strike you. But the case is serious, as you will 
see. It involves my life, perhaps for many years to come. 

“ I am completely in Del Ferice’s power. A year ago I had 
the possibility of freeing myself. What do you think that 
chance was ? I could have gone to my grandfather and asked 
him to lay down a sum of money sufficient to liberate me, or I 
could have refused Del Ferice’s new offer and allowed myself to 
be declared bankrupt. My abominable vanity stood in the way 
of my following either of those plans. In less than two months 
I shall be placed in the same position again. But the circum- 
stances are changed. The sum of money is so considerable that 
I would not like to ask all my family, with their three fortunes, 
to contribute it. The business is enormous. I have an estab- 
lishment like a bank and Contini — you remember Contini? — 
has several assistant architects. Moreover we stand alone. 

2e 


418 


DON ORSINO. 


There is no other firm of the kind left, and our failure would be 
a very disagreeable affair. But so long as I remain Del Fence's 
slave, we shall not fail. Do you know that this great and suc- 
cessful firm is carried on systematically without a centime of 
profit to the partners, and with the constant threat of a disgrace- 
ful failure, used to force me on ? Do you think that if I chose 
the alternative, any one would believe, or that my tyrant would 
let any one believe, that Orsino Saracinesca had served Ugo Del 
Ferice for years — two years and a half before long — as a sort of 
bondsman? I am in a very unenviable position. I am sure 
that Del Ferice made use of me at first for his own ends — that 
is, to make money for him. The magnitude of the sums which 
pass through my hands makes me sure that he is now backed 
by a powerful syndicate, probably of foreign bankers who lost 
money in the Roman crash, and who see a chance of getting it 
back through Del Ferice’s management. It is a question of 
millions. You do not understand? Will you try to read my 
explanation ? ” 

And here Orsino summed up his position towards Del 
Ferice in a clear and succinct statement, which it is not 
necessary to reproduce here. It needed no talent for busi- 
ness on Maria Consuelo’s part to understand that he was 
bound hand and foot. 

“One of three things must happen” (Orsino continued). 
“ I must cripple, if not ruin, the fortune of my family, or I must 
go through a scandalous bankruptcy, or I must continue to be 
Ugo Del Fence’s servant during the best years of my life. My 
only consolation is that I am unpaid. I do not speak of poor 
Contini. He is making a reputation, it is true, and Del Ferice 
gives him something which I increase as much as I can. Con- 
sidering our positions, he is the more completely sacrificed of 
the two, poor fellow — and through my fault. If I had only 
had the courage to put my vanity out of the way eighteen 
months ago, I might have saved him as well as myself. I 
believed myself a match for Del Ferice — and I neither was nor 
ever shall be. I am a little desperate. 

“ That is my life, my dear friend. Since you have not quite 
forgotten me, write me a word of that good old sympathy on 
which I lived so long. It may soon be all I have to live on. 
If Del Ferice should have the bad taste to follow Donna Tullia 


DON OBSINO. 


419 


to Saint Lawrence’s, nothing could save me. I should no 
longer have the alternative of remaining his slave in exchange 
for safety from bankruptcy to myself and ruin — or something 
like it — to my father. 

“ But let us talk no more about it all. But for your kindly 
letter, no one would ever have known all this, except Contini. 
In your calm Egyptian life — thank God, dear, that your life is 
calm ! — my story must sound like a fragment from an unpleas- 
ant dream. One thing you do not tell me. Are you happy, as 
well as peaceful ? I would like to know. I am not. 

“ Pray write again, when you have time — and inclination. 
If there is anything to be done for you in Borne — any little 
thing, or great thing either — command your old friend, 

“ OltSINO Saracinesca.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Orsino posted his letter with an odd sensation of relief. 
He felt that he was once more in communication with 
humanity, since he had been able to speak out and tell 
some one of the troubles that oppressed him. He had 
assuredly no reason for being more hopeful than before, 
and matters were in reality growing more serious every 
day ; but his heart was lighter and he took a more cheer- 
ful view of the future, almost against his own better 
judgment. 

He had not expected to receive an answer from Maria 
Consuelo for some time and was surprised when one came 
in less than ten days from the date of his writing. This 
letter was short, hurriedly written and carelessly worded, 
but there was a ring of anxiety for him in every line of it 
which he could not misinterpret. Hot only did she ex- 
press the deepest sympathy for him and assure him that 
all he did still had the liveliest interest for her, but she 
also insisted upon being informed of the state of his affairs 
as often as possible. He had spoken of three possibilities, 
she said. Was there not a fourth somewhere ? There 


420 


DON OESINO. 


might often be an issue from the most desperate situation, 
of which no one dreamed. Could she not help him to 
discover where it lay in this case ? Could they not write 
to each other and find it out together ? 

Orsino looked uneasily at the lines, and the blood rose 
to his temples. Did she mean what she said, or more, 
or less ? He was overwrought and over-sensitive, and 
she had written thoughtlessly, as though not weighing 
her words, but only following an impulse for which she 
had no time to find the proper expression. She could 
not imagine that he would accept substantial help from 
her — still less that he would consent to marry her for 
the sake of the fortune which might save him. He gre w 
very angry, then turned cold again, and then, reading 
the words again, saw that he had no right to attach any 
such meaning to them. Then it struck him that even if, 
by any possibility, she had meant to convey such an idea, 
he would have no right at all to resent it. Women, he 
reflected, did not look upon such matters as men did. 
She had refused to marry him when he was prosperous. 
If she meant that she would marry him now, to save him 
from ruin, he could not but acknowledge that she was 
carrying devotion near to its farthest limit. But the 
words themselves would not bear such an interpretation. 
He was straining language too far in suggesting it. 

“ And yet she means something,” he said to himself. 
“ Something which I cannot understand.” 

He wrote again, maintaining the tone of his first letter 
more carefully than she had done on her part, though 
not sparing the warmest expressions of heartfelt thanks 
for the sympathy she had so readily given. But there 
was no fourth way, he said. One of those three things 
which he had explained to her must happen. There was 
no hope, and he was resigned to continue his existence 
of slavery until Del Eerice’s death brought about the 
great crisis of his life. Hot that Del Eerice was in any 
danger of dying, he added, in spite of the general gossip 
about his bad health. Such men often outlasted stronger 


DON ORSINO. 


421 


people, as Ugo had outlived Donna Tullia. Not that his 
death would improve matters, either, as they stood at 
present. That he had explained before. If the count 
died now, there were ninety-nine chances out of a hun- 
dred that Orsino would be ruined. For the present, 
nothing would happen. In little more than a month — 
in six weeks at the utmost — a new arrangement would 
be forced upon him, binding him perhaps for years to 
come. Del Ferice had already spoken to him of a great 
public undertaking, at least half of the contract for which 
could easily be secured or controlled by his bank. He 
had added that this might be a favourable occasion for 
Andrea Contini and Company to act in concert with the 
bank. Orsino knew what that meant. Indeed, there 
was no possibility of mistaking the meaning, which was 
clear enough. The fourth plan could only lie in finding 
beforehand a purchaser for buildings which could not be 
so disposed of, because they were built for a particular 
purpose, and could only be bought by those who had or- 
dered them, namely persons whom Del Ferice so con- 
trolled that he could postpone their appearance if he 
chose and drive Orsino into a failure at any moment 
after the completion of the work. For instance, one of 
those buildings was evidently intended for a factory, and 
probably for a match factory. Del Ferice, in requiring 
that Contini and Company should erect what he had 
already arranged to dispose of, had vaguely remarked 
that there were no match factories in Eome and that 
perhaps some one would like to buy one. If Orsino had 
been less desperate he would willingly have risked much 
to resent the suave insolence. As it was, he had laughed 
in his tyrant’s face, and bitterly enough ; a form of 
insult, however, to which Ugo was supremely indifferent. 

These and many other details Orsino wrote to Maria 
Consuelo, pouring out his confidence with the assurance 
of a man who asks nothing but sympathy and is sure of 
receiving that in overflowing measure. He no longer 
waited for her answers, as the crucial moment ap- 


422 


DON OBSINO. 


proached, but wrote freely from day to day, as he felt in- 
clined. There was little which he did not tell her in the 
dozen or fifteen letters he penned in the course of the 
month. Like many reticent men who have never taken 
up a pen except for ordinary correspondence or for the 
routine work of a business requiring accuracy, and who 
all at once begin to write the history of their daily lives 
for the perusal of one trusted person, Orsino felt as 
though he had found a new means of expression and 
abandoned himself willingly to the comparative pleasure 
of complete confidence. Like all such men, too, he 
unconsciously exhibited the chief fault of his character 
in his long, diary-like letters. That fault was his vanity. 
Had he been describing a great success he could and 
would have concealed it better ; in writing of his own 
successive errors and disappointments he showed by the 
excessive blame he cast upon himself, how deeply that 
vanity of his was wounded. It is possible that Maria 
Consuelo discovered this. But she made no profession 
of analysis, and while appearing outwardly far colder 
than Orsino, she seemed much more disposed than he to 
yield to unexpected impulses when she felt their influ- 
ence. And Orsino was quite unconscious that he might 
be exhibiting the defects of his moral nature to eyes 
keener than his own. 

He wrote constantly therefore, with the utmost free- 
dom, and in the moments while he was writing he enjoyed 
a faint illusion of increased safety, as though he were re- 
tarding the events of the future by describing minutely 
those of the past. More than once again Maria Consuelo 
answered him, and always in the same strain, doing her 
best, apparently, to give him hope and to reconcile him 
with himself. However much he might condemn his 
own lack of foresight, she said, no man who did his best 
according to his best judgment, and who acted honour- 
ably, was to be blamed for the result, though it might 
involve the ruin of thousands. That was her chief argu- 
ment and it comforted him, and seemed to relieve him 


DON ORSINO. 


423 


from a small part of the responsibility which weighed so 
heavily upon his shoulders, a burden now grown so heavy 
that the least lightening of it made him feel compara- 
tively free until called upon to face facts again and fight 
with realities. 

But events would not be retarded, and Orsino’s own 
good qualities tended to hasten them, as they had to a 
great extent been the cause of his embarrassment ever 
since the success of his first attempt, in making him 
valuable as a slave to be kept from escaping at all risks. 
The system upon which the business was conducted was 
admirable. It had been good from the beginning and 
Orsino had improved it to a degree very uncommon in 
Kome. He had mastered the science of book-keeping in 
a short time, and had forced himself to an accuracy 
of detail and a promptness of ready reference which 
would have surprised many an old professional clerk. It 
must be remembered that from the first he had found 
little else to do. The technical work had always been in 
Contini’s hands, and Del Fence’s forethought had relieved 
them both from the necessity of entering upon financial 
negotiations requiring time, diplomatic tact and skill of a 
higher order. The consequence was that Orsino had de- 
voted the whole of his great energy and native talent for 
order to the keeping of the books, with the result that 
when a contract had been executed there was hardly any 
accountant’s work to be done. Nominally, too, Andrea 
Contini and Company were not responsible to any one for 
their book-keeping ; but in practice, and under pretence of 
rendering valuable service, Del Ferice sent an auditor from 
time to time to look into the state of affairs, a proceeding 
which Contini bitterly resented while Orsino expressed 
himself perfectly indifferent to the interference, on the 
ground that there was nothing to conceal. Had the books 
been badly kept, the final winding up of each contract 
would have been retarded for one or more weeks. But 
the more deeply Orsino became involved, the more keenly 
he felt the value and, at last, the vital importance, of the 


424 


DON ORSINO. 


most minute accuracy. If worse came to worst and he 
should be obliged to fail, through Del Fence’s sudden 
death or from any other cause, his reputation as an 
honourable man might depend upon this very accuracy of 
detail, by which he would be able to prove that in the 
midst of great undertakings, and while very large sums of 
money were passing daily through his hands, he had never 
received even the very smallest share of the profits 
absorbed by the bank. He even kept a private account 
of his own expenditure on the allowance he received from 
his father, in order that, if called upon, he might be able 
to prove how large a part of that allowance he regularly 
paid to poor Contini as compensation for the unhappy 
position in which the latter found himself. If bankruptcy 
awaited him, his failure would, if the facts were properly 
made known, reckon as one of the most honourable on 
record, though he was pleased to look upon such a con- 
tingency as a certain source of scandal and more than 
possible disgrace. 

Unconsciously his own determined industry in book- 
keeping gave him a little more confidence. In his great 
anxiety he was spared the terrible uncertainty felt by a 
man who does not precisely know his own financial posi- 
tion at a given critical moment. His studiously acquired 
outward calm also stood him in good stead. Even San 
Giacinto who knew the financial world as few men knew it 
watched his youthful cousin with curiosity and not with- 
out a certain sympathy and a very little admiration. The 
young man’s face was growing stern and thoughtful like 
his own, lean, grave and strong. San Giacinto remem- 
bered that night a year and a half earlier when he had 
warned Orsino of the coming danger, and he was almost 
displeased with himself now for having taken a step 
which seemed to have been unnecessary. It was San 
Giacinto’s principle never to do anything unnecessary, 
because a useless action meant a loss of time and there- 
fore a loss of advantage over the adversary of the mo- 
ment. San Giacinto, in different circumstances, would 


DON ORSINO. 


425 


have made a good general — possibly a great one ; bis 
strange life had made him a financier of a type singular 
and wholly different from that of the men with whom he 
had to deal. He never sought to gain an advantage by a 
deception, but he won everything by superior foresight, 
imperturbable coolness, matchless rapidity of action and 
undaunted courage under all circumstances. It needs 
higher qualities to be a good man, but no others are 
needed to make a successful one. Orsino possessed 
something of the same rapidity and much of a similar 
coolness and courage, but he lacked the foresight. It was 
vanity, of the most pardonable kind, indeed, but vanity 
nevertheless which had led him to embark upon his dan- 
gerous enterprise — not in the determination to accom- 
plish for the sake of accomplishing, still less in the 
direct desire for wealth as an ultimate object, but in the 
almost boyish longing to show to his own people that 
there was more in him than they suspected. The gift of 
foresight is generally weakened by the presence of van- 
ity, but when vanity takes its place the result is as 
likely to be failure as not, and depends almost directly 
upon chance alone. 

The crisis in Orsino’s life was at hand, and what has 
here been finally said of his position at that time seemed 
necessary, as summing up the consequences to him of 
more than two years’ unremitting labour, during which 
he had become involved in affairs of enormous conse- 
quence at an age when most young men are spending their 
time, more profitably perhaps and certainly more agree- 
ably, in such pleasures and pursuits as mother society 
provides for her half-fledged nestlings. 

On the day before his final interview with Del Fence 
Orsino wrote a lengthy letter to Maria Consuelo. As 
she did not receive it until long afterwards it is quite 
unnecessary to give any account of its contents. Some 
time had passed since he had heard from her and he was 
not sure whether or not she were still in Egypt. But 
he wrote to her, nevertheless, drawing much fictitious 


426 


DON ORSINO. 


comfort and little real advantage from the last clear 
statement of his difficulties. By this time, writing to 
her had become a habit and he resorted to it naturally 
when over wearied by work and anxiety. 

On this same day also he had spent several hours in 
talking over the situation with Contini. The architect, 
strange to say, was more reconciled with his position 
than he had formerly been. He, at least, received a cer- 
tain substantial remuneration. He, at least, loved his 
profession and rejoiced in the handling of great masses 
of brick and stone. He, too, was rapidly making a repu- 
tation and a name for himself, and, if business improved, 
was not prevented from entering into other enterprises 
besides the one in which he found himself so deeply in- 
terested. As a member of the firm, he could not free 
himself. As an architect, he could have an architect’s 
office of his own and build for any one who chose to 
employ him. Tor his own part, he said, he might per- 
haps be more profitably employed upon less important 
work ; but then, he might not, for business was very bad. 
The great works in which Del Ferice kept him engaged 
had the incalculable advantage of bringing him con- 
stantly before the public as an architect and of keeping 
his name, which was the name of the firm, continually in 
the notice of all men of business. He was deeply in- 
debted to Orsino for the generous help given when the 
realities of profit were so greatly at variance with the 
appearances of prosperity. He would always regard re- 
payment of the money so advanced to him as a debt of 
honour and he hoped to live long enough to extinguish 
it. He sympathised with Orsino in his desire to be freer 
and more independent, but reminded him that when the 
day of liberation came, he would not regret the compara- 
tively short apprenticeship during which he had acquired 
so great a mastery of business. Business, he said, had 
been Orsino’s ambition from the beginning, and business 
he had, in plenty, if not with profit. For his own part, 
he was satisfied. 


DON ORSINO. 


427 


Orsino felt that his partner could not be blamed, and 
he felt, too, that he would be doing Contini a great injury 
in involving him in a failure. But he regretted the time 
when their interests had coincided and they had cursed 
Del Ferice in common and with a good will. There was 
nothing to be done but to submit. He knew well enough 
what awaited him. 

On the following morning, by appointment, he went 
with a heavy heart to meet Del Ferice at the bank. The 
latter had always preferred to see Orsino without Con- 
tini when a new contract was to be discussed. As a per- 
sonal acquaintance he treated with Orsino on a footing 
of social equality, and the balance of outwardly agree- 
able relations would have been disturbed by the presence 
of a social inferior. Moreover, Del Ferice knew the Sar- 
acinesca people tolerably well, and though not so timid 
as many people supposed, he somewhat dreaded a sudden 
outbreak of the hereditary temper ; if such a manifesta- 
tion really took place, it would be more agreeable that 
there should be no witnesses of it. 

Orsino was surprised to find that Ugo was out of town. 
Having made an appointment, he ought at least to have 
sent word to the Palazzo Saracinesca of his departure. 
He had indeed left a message for Orsino, which was cor- 
rectly delivered, to the effect that he would return in 
twenty-four hours, and requesting him to postpone the 
interview until the following afternoon. In Orsino’s 
humour this was not altogether pleasant. The young 
man felt little suspense indeed, for he knew how matters 
must turn out, and that he should be saddled with an- 
other contract. But he found it hard to wait with 
equanimity, now that he had made up his mind to the 
worst, and he resented Del Fence’s rudeness in not giv- 
ing a civil warning of his intended journey. 

The day passed somehow, at last, and towards evening 
Orsino received a telegram from Ugo, full of excuses, 
but begging to put off the meeting two days longer. The 
dispatch was from ISTaples whither Del Ferice often 
went on business. 


428 


DON ORSINO. 


It was almost unbearable and yet it must be borne. 
Orsino spent his time in roaming about the less fre- 
quented parts of the city, trying to make new plans for 
the future which was already planned for him, doing his 
best to follow out a distinct line of thought, if only to 
distract his own attention. He could not even write to 
Maria Consuelo, for he felt that he had said all there 
was to be said, in his last long letter. 

On the morning of the fourth day he went to the bank 
again. Del Ferice was there and greeted him warmly, 
interweaving his phrases with excuses for his absence. 

“You will forgive me, I am sure,” he said, “though I 
have put you to very great inconvenience. The case was 
urgent and I could not leave it in the hands of others. 
Of course you could have settled the business with an- 
other of the directors, but I think — indeed, I know — that 
you prefer only to see me in these matters. We have 
worked together so long now, that we understand each 
other with half a word. Really, I am very sorry to have 
kept you waiting so long ! ” 

“It is of no importance,” answered Orsino coolly. 
“Pray do not speak of it.” 

“Of importance — no — perhaps not. That is, as you 
could not lose by it, it was not of financial importance. 
But when I have made an engagement, I like to keep it. 
In business, so much depends upon keeping small engage- 
ments — and they may mean quite as much in the rela- 
tions of society. However, as you are so kind, we will 
not speak of it again. I have made my excuses and you 
have accepted them. Let that end the matter. To busi- 
ness, now, Don Orsino — to business ! ” 

Orsino fancied that Del Fence’s manner was not quite 
natural. He was generally more quiet. His rather 
watery blue eyes did not usually look so wide awake, his 
fat white hands were not commonly so active in their 
gestures. Altogether he seemed more nervous, and at 
the same time better pleased with himself and with life 
than usual. Orsino wondered what had happened. He 


DON ORSINO. 


429 


had perhaps made some very successful stroke in his 
affairs during the three days he had spent in Naples. 

“ So let us now have a look into your contracts, Don 
Orsino,” he said. “ Or rather, look into the state of the 
account yourself if you wish to do so, for I have already 
examined it.” 

“ I am familiar enough with the details,” answered the 
young man. “I do not need to look over everything. 
The books have been audited as you see. The only thing 
left to be done is to hand over the work to you, since it 
is executed according to the contract. You doubtless 
remember that verbal part of the agreement. You receive 
the buildings as they now stand and our credit cash if 
there is any, in full discharge of all the obligations of 
Andrea Contini and Company to the bank — acceptances 
coming due, balance of account if in debit, and mortgages 
on land and houses — and we are quits again, my firm being 
discharged of all obligation.” 

Del Fence’s expression changed a little and became 
more grave. 

“ Doubtless,” he answered, “ there was a tacit under- 
standing to that effect. Yes — yes — I remember. Indeed 
it was not altogether tacit. A word was said about it, 
and a word is as good as a contract. Very well, Don 
Orsino — very well. Since you desire it, we will cry quits 
again. This kind of business is not very profitable to the 
bank — not very — but it is not actual loss.” 

“ It is not profitable to us,” observed Orsino. “If you 
do not wish any more of it, we do not.” 

“ Really ? ” 

Del Ferice looked at him rather curiously as though 
wishing that he would say more. Orsino met his glance 
steadily, expecting to be informed of the nature of the 
next contract to be forced upon him. 

“ So you really prefer to discontinue these operations — • 
if I may call them so,” said Del Ferice thoughtfully. 
“It is strange that you should, I confess. I remember 
that you much desired to take a part in affairs, to be an 


430 


DON OKSINO. 


actor in the interesting doings of the day, to be a finan- 
cial personage, in short. You have had your wish, Don 
Orsino. Your firm plays an important part in Koine. Do 
you remember our first interview on the steps of Monte 
Citorio ? You asked me whether I could and would help 
you to enter business. I promised that I would, and I 
have kept my word. The sums mentioned in those pa- 
pers, here, show that I have done all I promised. You 
told me that you had fifteen thousand francs at your dis- 
posal. From that small beginning I have shown you how 
to deal with millions. But you do not seem to care for 
business, after all, Don Orsino. You really do not seem 
to care for it, though I must confess that you have a 
remarkable talent. It is very strange.” 

“ Is it ? ” asked Orsino with a shade of contempt. 
“You may remember that my business has not been 
profitable, in spite of what you call my talent, and in 
spite of what I know to have been hard work.” 

Del Ferice smiled softly. 

“That is quite another matter,” he answered. “If 
you had asked me whether you could make a fortune 
at this time, I would have told you that it was quite 
impossible without enormous capital. Quite impossible. 
Understand that, if you please. But, negatively, you 
have profited, because others have failed — hundreds of 
firms and contractors — while you have lost but the 
paltry fifteen thousand or so with which you began. 
And you have acquired great knowledge and experience. 
Therefore, on the whole, you have been the gainer. In 
balancing an account one takes but the sordid debit and 
credit and compares them — but in estimating the value 
of a firm one should consider its reputation and the good- 
will it has created. The name of Andrea Contini and 
Company is a power in Kome. That is the result of 
your work, and it is not a loss.” 

Orsino said nothing, but leaned back in his chair, 
gloomily staring at the wall. He wondered when Del 
Ferice would come to the point, and begin to talk about 
the new contract. 


DON ORSINO. 


431 


“ You do not seem to agree with me,” observed Ugo in 
an injured tone. 

“Not altogether, I confess,” replied the young man 
with a contemptuous laugh. 

“Well, well — it is no matter — it is of no importance 
— of no consequence whatever,” said Del Ferice, who 
seemed inclined to repeat himself and to lengthen his 
phrases as though he wished to gain time. “ Only this, 
Don Orsino. I would remind you that you have just 
executed a piece of work successfully, which no other 
firm in Borne could have carried out without failure, 
under the present depression. It seems to me that you 
have every reason to congratulate yourself. Of course, 
it was impossible for me to understand that you really 
cared for a large profit — for actual money ” 

“And I do not,” interrupted Orsino with more warmth 
than he had hitherto shown. 

“ But, in that case, you ought to be more than satis- 
fied,” objected Ugo suavely. 

Orsino grew impatient at last and spoke out frankly. 

“I cannot be satisfied with a position of absolute 
dependence, from which I cannot escape except by bank- 
ruptcy. You know that I am completely in your power. 
You know very well that while you are talking to me 
now you contemplate making your usual condition before 
crying quits, as you express it. You intend to impose 
another and probably a larger piece of work on me, 
which I shall be obliged to undertake on the same terms 
as before, because if I do not accept it, it is in your power 
to ruin me at once. And this state of things may go on 
for years. That is the enviable position of Andrea Con- 
tini and Company.” 

Del Ferice assumed an air of injured dignity. 

“ If you think anything of this kind you greatly mis- 
judge me,” he said. 

“ I do not see why I should judge otherwise,” retorted 
Orsino. “ That is exactly what took place on the last 
occasion, and what will take place now ” 


432 


DON ORSINO. 


“ I think not/’ said Del Feriee very quietly, and watch- 
ing him. 

Orsino was somewhat startled by the words, but his 
face betrayed nothing. It was clear to him that Ugo 
had something new to propose, and it was not easy to 
guess the nature of the coming proposition. 

“Will you kindly explain yourself ? ” he asked. 

“My dear Don Orsino, there is nothing to explain,” 
replied Del Feriee again becoming very bland. 

“ I do not understand.” 

“ No ? It is very simple. You have finished the 
buildings. The bank will take them over and consider 
the account closed. You stated the position yourself in 
the most precise terms. I do not see why you should 
suppose that the bank wishes to impose anything upon 
you which you are not inclined to accept. I really do 
not see why you should think anything of the kind.” 

In the dead silence which followed Orsino could hear 
his own heart beating loudly. He wondered whether he 
had heard aright. He wondered whether this were not 
some new manoeuvre on Del Fence’s part by which he 
must ultimately fall still more completely under the 
banker’s domination. Ugo doubtless meant to qualify 
what he had just said by adding a clause. Orsino waited 
for what was to follow. 

“Am I to understand that this does not suit your 
wishes ? ” inquired Ugo, presently. 

“ On the contrary, it would suit me perfectly,” an- 
swered Orsino controlling his voice with some difficulty. 

“ In that case, there is nothing more to be said,” ob- 
served Del Feriee. “ The bank will give you a formal 
release — indeed, I think the notary is at this moment 
here. I am very glad to be able to meet your views, 
Don Orsino. Very glad, I am sure. It is always pleas- 
ant to find that amicable relations have been preserved 
after a long and somewhat complicated business connex- 
ion. The bank owes it to you, I am sure ” 

“I am quite willing to owe that to the bank,” am 


DON ORSINO. 


433 


swered Orsino with a ready smile. He was almost beside 
himself with joy. 

“You are very good, I assure you / 5 said Del Derice, 
with much politeness. He touched a bell and his con- 
fidential clerk appeared. 

“ Cancel these drafts / 5 he said, giving the man a small 
bundle of bills. “Direct the notary to prepare a deed 
of sale, transferring all this property, as was done be- 
fore 55 he hesitated. “ I will see him myself in ten 

minutes / 5 he added. “ It will be simpler. The account 
of Andrea Contini is balanced and closed. Make out a 
preliminary receipt for all dues whatsoever and bring it 
to me . 55 

The clerk stared for one moment as though he believed 
that Del Ferice were mad. Then he went out. 

“ I am sorry to lose you, Don Orsino / 5 said Del Ferice, 
thoughtfully rolling his big silver pencil case on the 
table. “All the legal papers will be ready to-morrow 
afternoon . 55 

“ Pray express to the directors my best thanks for so 
speedily winding up the business / 5 answered Orsino. 
“ I think that, after all, I have no great talent for 
affairs . 55 

“On the contrary, on the contrary / 5 protested Ugo. 
“ I have a great deal to say against that statement . 55 
And he eulogised Orsino 5 s gifts almost without pausing 
for breath until the clerk returned with the preliminary 
receipt. Del Ferice signed it and handed it to Orsino 
with a smile. 

“This was unnecessary / 5 said the young man. “I 
could have waited until to-morrow . 55 

“A matter of conscience, dear Don Orsino — nothing 
more . 55 

2f 


434 


don orsino. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Orsino was free at last. The whole matter was in- 
comprehensible to him, and almost mysterious, so that 
after he had at last received his legal release he spent 
his time in trying to discover the motives of Del Pence’s 
conduct. The simplest explanation seemed to be that 
Ugo had not derived as much profit from the last con- 
tract as he had hoped for, though it had been enough to 
justify him in keeping his informal engagement with 
Contini and Company, and that he feared a new and 
unfavourable change in business which made any further 
speculations of the kind dangerous. Por some time 
Orsino believed this to have been the case, but events 
proved that he was mistaken. He dissolved his partner- 
ship with Contini, but Andrea Contini and Company 
still continued to exist. The new partner was no less a 
personage than Del Perice himself, who was constantly 
represented in the firm by the confidential clerk who has 
been more than once mentioned in this history, and who 
was a friend of Contini’s. What terms Contini made for 
himself, Orsino never knew, but it is certain that the 
architect prospered from that time and is still pros- 
perous. 

Late in the spring of that year 1890 Roman society 
was considerably surprised by the news of a most unex- 
pected marriage. The engagement had been carefully 
kept a secret, the banns had been published in Palermo, 
the civil and religious ceremonies had taken place there, 
and the happy couple had already reached Paris before 
either of them thought of informing their friends and 
before any notice of the event appeared in the papers. 
Even then, society felt itself aggrieved by the laconic 
form in which the information was communicated. 

The statement, indeed, left nothing to be desired on 
the score of plainness or conciseness of style. Count 


DON ORSINO. 


435 


Del Ferice had married Maria Consuelo d’Aranjuez 
d’Aragona. 

Two persons only received the intelligence a few days 
before it was generally made known. One was Orsino 
and the other was Spicca. The letters were characteris- 
tic and may be worth reproducing. 

"My Father ” (Maria Consuelo wrote) — "I am married to 
Count Del Ferice, with whom I think that you are acquainted. 
There is no reason why I should enter into any explanation of 
my reasons for taking this step. There are plenty which every- 
body can see. My husband’s present position and great wealth 
make him what the world calls a good match, and my fortune 
places me above the suspicion of having married him for his 
money. If his birth was not originally of the highest, it was at 
least as good as mine, and society will say that the marriage 
was appropriate in all its circumstances. You are aware that I 
could not be married without informing my husband and the 
municipal authorities of my parentage, by presenting copies of 
the registers in Nice. Count Del Ferice was good enough to 
overlook some little peculiarity in the relation between the dates 
of my birth and your marriage. We will therefore say no more 
about the matter. The object of this letter is to let you know 
that those facts have been communicated to several persons, as 
a matter of necessity. I do not expect you to congratulate me. 
I congratulate myself, however, with all my heart. Within two 
years I have freed myself from my worthy mother, I have placed 
myself beyond your power to injure me, and I have escaped 
ruining a man I loved by marrying him. I have laid the foun- 
dations of peace if not of happiness. 

“ The Princess is very ill but hopes to reach Normandy before 
the summer begins. My husband will be obliged to be often in 
Rome but will come to me from time to time, as I cannot leave 
the Princess at present. She is trying, however, to select among 
her acquaintance another lady in waiting — the more willingly 
as she is not pleased with my marriage. Is that a satisfaction 
to you? I expect to spend the winter in Rome. 

“Maria Consuelo Del Ferice.” 

This was the letter by which Maria Consuelo announced 
her marriage to the father whom she so sincerely hated. 
For cruelty of language and expression it was not to be 


436 


DON ORSINO. 


compared with the one she had written to him after part- 
ing with Orsino. But had she known how the news she 
now conveyed would affect the old man who was to learn 
it, her heart might have softened a little towards him, 
even after all she had suffered. Very different were the 
lines Orsino received from her at the same time. 

“My dear Friend — When you read this letter, which I 
write on the eve of my marriage, but shall not send till some days 
have passed, you must think of me as the wife of Ugo Del Ferice. 
To-night, I am still Maria Consuelo. I have something to say 
to you, and you must read it patiently, for I shall never say it 
again — and after all, it will not be much. Is it right of me to 
say it? I do not know. Until to-morrow I have still time to 
refuse to be married. Therefore I am still a free agent, and en- 
titled to think freely. After to-morrow it will be different. 

“I wish, dear, that I could tell you all the truth. Perhaps 
you would not be ashamed of having loved the daughter of 
Lucrezia Ferris. But I cannot tell you all. There are reasons 
why you had better never know it. But I will tell you this, for I 
must say it once. I love you very dearly. I loved you long 
ago, I loved you when I left you in Rome, I have loved you ever 
since, and I am afraid that I shall love you until I die. 

“ It is not foolish of me to write the words, though it may 
be wrong. If I love you, it is because I know you. We shall 
meet before long, and then meet, perhaps, hundreds of times, 
and more, for I am to live in Rome. I know that you will be 
all you should be, or I would not speak now as I never spoke 
before, at the moment when I am raising an impassable barrier 
between us by my own free will. If you ever loved me — and 
you did — you will respect that barrier in deed and word, and 
even in thought. You will remember only that I loved you 
with all my heart on the day before my marriage. You will 
forget even to think that I may love you still to-morrow, and 
think tenderly of you on the day after that. 

“ You are free now, dear, and can begin your real life. How 
do I know it? Del Ferice has told me that he has released 
you — for we sometimes speak of you. He has even shown me 
a copy of the legal act of release, which he chanced to find 
among the papers he had brought. An accident, perhaps. Or, 
perhaps he knows that I loved you. I do not care — I had a 
right to, then. 


DON ORSINO. 


43T 


“ So you are quite free. I like to think that you have come 
out of all your troubles quite unscathed, young, your name un- 
tarnished, your hands clean. I am glad that you answered the 
letter I wrote to you from Egypt and told me all, and wrote 
so often afterwards. I could not do much beyond give you my 
sympathy, and I gave it all — to the uttermost. You will not 
need any more of it. You are free now, thank God ! 

“ If you think of me, wish me peace, dear — I do not ask for 
anything nearer to happiness than that. But I wish you many 
things, the least of which should make you happy. Most of all, 
I wish that you may some day love well and truly, and win the 
reality of which you once thought you held the shadow. Can 
I say more than that? No loving woman can. 

“ And so, good-bye — good-bye, love of all my life, good-bye 
dear, dear Orsino — I think this is the hardest good-bye of all — 
when we are to meet so soon. I cannot write any more. Once 
again, the last — the very last time, for ever — I love you. 

“ Maria Consuelo.” 

A strange sensation came over Orsino as he read this 
letter. He was not able at first to realise much beyond 
the fact that Maria Consuelo was actually married to Del 
Ferice — a match than which none imaginable could have 
been more unexpected. But he felt that there was more 
behind the facts than he was able to grasp, almost more 
than he dared to guess at. A mysterious horror filled his 
mind as he read and reread the lines. There was no 
doubting the sincerity of what she said. He doubted the 
survival of his own love much more. She could have no 
reason whatever for writing as she did, on the eve of her 
marriage, no reason beyond the irresistible desire to speak 
out all her heart once only and for the last time. Again 
and again he went over the passages which struck him as 
most strange. Then the truth flashed upon him. Maria 
Consuelo had sold herself to free him from his difficul- 
ties, to save him from the terrible alternatives of either 
wasting his life as Del Fence’s slave or of ruining his 
family. 

With a smothered exclamation, between an oath and a 
groan of pain, Orsino threw himself upon the divan and 


438 


DON ORSINO. 


buried his face in his hands. It is kinder to leave him 
there for a time, alone. 

Poor Spicca broke down under this last blow. In vain 
old Santi got out the cordial from the press in the corner, 
and did his best to bring his master back to his natural 
self. In vain Spicca roused himself, forced himself to 
eat, went out, walked his hour, dragging his feet after 
him, and attempted to exchange a word with his friends 
at the club. He seemed to have got his death wound. 
His head sank lower on his breast, his long emaciated 
frame stooped more and more, the thin hands grew daily 
more colourless, and the deathly face daily more deathly 
pale. Days passed away, and weeks, and it was early 
June. He no longer tried to go out. Santi tried to pre- 
vail upon him to take a little air in a cab, on the Via 
Appia. It would be money well spent, he said, apologis- 
ing for suggesting such extravagance. Spicca shook his 
head, and kept to his chair by the open window. Then, 
on a certain morning, he was worse and had not the 
strength to rise from his bed. 

On that very morning a telegram came. He looked at 
it as though hardly understanding what he should do, as 
Santi held it before him. Then he opened it. His 
fingers did not tremble even now. The iron nerve of the 
great swordsman survived still. 

“ Yen t nor — Pome. Count Spicca. The Princess is dead. I 
know the truth at last. God forgive me and bless you. I 
come to you at once. — Maria Consuelo.” 

Spicca read the few words printed on the white strip 
that was pasted to the yellow paper. Then his hands 
sank to his sides and he closed his eyes. Santi thought 
it was the end, and burst into tears as he fell to his knees 
by the bed. 

Half an hour passed. Then Spicca raised his head, 
and made a gesture with his hand. 

“ Do not be a fool, Santi, I am not dead yet,” he said, 


DON ORSINO. 


439 


with kindly impatience. “Get up and send for Don 
Orsino Saracinesca, if he is still in Rome.” 

Santi left the room, drying his eyes and uttering inco- 
herent exclamations of astonishment mingled with a singu- 
lar cross fire of praise and prayer directed to the Saints 
and of imprecations upon himself for his own stupidity. 

Before noon Orsino appeared. He was gaunt and pale, 
and more like San Giacinto than ever. There was a 
settled hardness in his face which was never again to 
disappear permanently. But he was horror-struck by 
Spicca’ s appearance. He had no idea that a man already 
so cadaverous could still change as the old man had 
changed. Spicca seemed little more than a grey shadow 
barely resting upon the white bed. He put the telegram 
into Orsino’s hands. The young man read it twice and 
his face expressed his astonishment. Spicca smiled 
faintly, as he watched him. 

“ What does it mean ? ” asked Orsino. “ Of what truth 
does she speak ? She hated you, and now, all at once, she 
loves you. I do not understand.” 

“ How should you ? ” The old man spoke in a clear, 
thin voice, very unlike his own. “ You could not under- 
stand. But before I die, I will tell you.” 

“ Do not talk of dying ” 

“Ho. It is not necessary. I realise it enough, and 
you need not realise it at all. I have not much to tell 
you, but a little truth will sometimes destroy many false- 
hoods. You remember the story about Lucrezia Ferris ? 
Maria Consuelo wrote it to you.” 

“ Remember it ! Could I forget it ? ” 

“ You may as well. There is not a word of truth in it. 
Lucrezia Ferris is not her mother.” 

“ Hot her mother ! ” 

“Ho. I only wonder how you could ever have 
believed that a Piedmontese nurse could be the mother 
of Maria Consuelo. Hor am I Maria Consuelo’s father. 
Perhaps that will not surprise you so much. She does 
not resemble me, thank Heaven ! ” 


440 


DON ORSINO. 


“What is she then? Who is she ? ” asked Orsino 
impatiently. 

“ To tell you that I must tell you the story. When I 
was young — very long before you were born — I travelled 
much, and I was well received. I was rich and of good 
family. At a certain court in Europe — I was at one time 
in the diplomacy — I loved a lady whom I could not have 
married, even had she been free. Her station was far 
above mine. She was also considerably older than I, and 
she paid very little attention to me, I confess. But I 
loved her. She is just dead. She was that princess 
mentioned in this telegram. Do you understand? Do 
you hear me ? My voice is weak.” 

“ Perfectly. Pray go on.” 

“ Maria Consuelo is her grandchild — the granddaughter 
of the only woman I ever loved. Understand that, too. 
It happened in this way. My Princess had but one* 
daughter, the Princess Marie, a mere child when I first 
saw her — not more than fourteen years old. We were 
all in Nice, one winter thirty years ago — some four years 
after I had first met the Princess. I travelled in order to 
see her, and she was always kind to me, though she did 
not love me. Perhaps I was useful, too, before that. 
People were always afraid of me, because I could handle 
the foils. It was thirty years ago, and the Princess 
Marie was eighteen. Poor child ! ” 

Spicca paused a moment, and passed his transparent 
hand over his eyes. 

“ I think I understand,” said Orsino. 

“No you do not,” answered Spicca, with unexpected 
sharpness. “ You will not understand, until I have told 
you everything. The Princess Marie fell ill, or pretended 
to fall ill while we were at Nice. But she could not con- 
ceal the truth long — at least not from her mother. She 
had already taken into her confidence a little Piedmon- 
tese maid, scarcely older than herself — a certain Lucrezia 
Ferris — and she allowed no other woman to come near 
her. Then she told her mother the truth. She loved a 


DON ORSINO. 


441 


man of her own rank and not much older — not yet of age, 
in fact. Unfortunately, as happens with such people, a 
marriage was diplomatically impossible. He was not of 
her nationality and the relations were strained. But she 
had married him nevertheless, secretly and, as it turned 
out, without any legal formalities. It is questionable 
whether the marriage, even then, could have been proved 
to be valid, for she was a Catholic and he was not, and a 
Catholic priest had married them without proper authori- 
sation or dispensation. But they were both in earnest, 
both young and both foolish. The husband — his name 
is of no importance — was very far away at the time we 
were in Hice, and was quite unable to come to her. She 
was about to be a mother and she turned to her own 
mother in her extremity, with a full confession of the 
truth.” 

“I see,” said Orsino. “And you adopted ” 

“You do not see yet. The Princess came to me for 
advice. The situation was an extremely delicate one 
from all points of view. To declare the marriage at that 
moment might have produced extraordinary complica- 
tions, for the countries to which the two young people 
belonged were on the verge of a war which was only re- 
tarded by the extraordinary genius of one man. To con- 
ceal it seemed equally dangerous, if not more so. The 
Princess Marie’s reputation was at stake — the reputation 
of a young girl, as people supposed her to be, remember 
that. Various schemes suggested themselves. I cannot 
tell what would have been done, for fate decided the 
matter — tragically, as fate does. The young husband 
was killed while on a shooting expedition — at least so it 
was stated. I always believed that he shot himself. It 
was all very mysterious. We could not keep the news 
from the Princess Marie. That night Maria Consuelo 
was born. On the next day, her mother died. The shock 
had killed her. The secret was now known to the old 
Princess, to me, to Lucrezia Perris and to the French 
doctor — a man of great skill and discretion. Maria Con- 


442 


DON OKSINO. 


suelo was the nameless orphan child of an unacknowl- 
edged marriage — of a marriage which was certainly not 
legal, and which the Church must hesitate to ratify. 
Again we saw that the complications, diplomatic and of 
other kinds, which would arise if the truth were published, 
would be enormous. The Prince himself was not yet in 
Nice and was quite ignorant of the true cause of his 
daughter’s sudden death. But he would arrive in forty- 
eight hours, and it was necessary to decide upon some 
course. We could rely upon the doctor and upon our 
two selves — the Princess and I. Lucrezia Perris seemed 
to be a sensible, quiet girl, and she certainly proved to be 
discreet for a long time. The Princess was distracted 
with grief and beside herself with anxiety. Remember 
that 1 loved her — that explains what I did. I proposed 
the plan which was carried out and with which you are 
acquainted, I took the child, declared it to be mine, 
and married Lucrezia. The only legal documents in 
existence concerning Maria Consuelo prove her to be my 
daughter. The priest who had married the poor Princess 
Marie could never be found. Terrified, perhaps, at what 
he had done, he disappeared — probably as a monk in an 
Austrian monastery. I hunted him for years. Lucrezia 
Perris was discreet for two reasons. She received a large 
sum of money, and a large allowance afterwards, and later 
on it appears that she further enriched herself at Maria 
Consuelo’s expense. Avarice was her chief fault, and by 
it we held her. Secondly, however, she was well aware, 
and knows to-day, that no one would believe her story if 
she told the truth. The proofs are all positive and legal 
for Maria Consuelo’s supposed parentage, and there is 
not a trace of evidence in favour of the truth. You 
know the story now. I am glad I have been able to tell 
it to you. I will rest now, for I am very tired. If 1 am 
alive to-morrow, come and see me — good-b} 7 e, in case 
you should not find me.” 

Orsino pressed the wasted hand and went out silently, 
more affected than he owned by the dying man’s words 


BON ORSINO. 


443 


and looks. It was a painful story of well-meant mistakes, 
he thought, and it explained many things which he had not 
understood. Linking it with all he knew besides, he had 
the whole history of Spicca’s mysterious, broken life, 
together with the explanation of some points in his own 
which had never been clear to him. The old cynic of a 
duellist had been a man of heart, after all, and had sac- 
rificed his whole existence to keep a secret for a woman 
whom he loved but who did not care for him. That was 
all. She was dead and he was dying. The secret was 
already half buried in the past. If it were told now, no 
one would believe it. 

Orsino returned on the following day. He had sent 
for news several times, and was told that Spicca still 
lingered. He saw him again but the old man seemed 
very weak and only spoke a few words during the hour 
Orsino spent with him. The doctor had said that he 
might possibly live, but that there was not much hope. 

And again on the next day Orsino came back. He 
started as he entered the room. An old Franciscan, a 
Minorite, was by the bedside, speaking in low tones. 
Orsino made as though he would withdraw, but Spicca 
feebly beckoned to him to stay, and the monk rose. 

“ Good-bye,” whispered Spicca, following him with his 
sunken eyes. 

Orsino led the Franciscan out. At the outer door the 
latter turned to Orsino with a strange look and laid a hand 
upon his arm. 

“ Who are yop, any son ? ” he asked. 

“ Orsaio Saracinosca.” 

“ A friend of his ?” 

“He hasorme terrible things in his long life. But he 
has done noble things, too, and has suffered much, and in 
silence. He has earned his rest, and God will forgive 
him.” 

The monk bowed his head and went out. Orsino re- 
entered the room and took the vacant chair beside the 


444 


DON ORSINO. 


bed. He touched Spicca’ s hand almost affectionately, but 
the latter withdrew it with an effort. He had never liked 
sympathy, and liked it least when another would have 
needed it most. For a considerable time neither spoke. 
The pale hand lay peacefully upon the pillows, the long, 
shadowy frame was wrapped in a gown of dark woollen 
material. 

“ Do you think she will come to-day ? ” asked the old 
man at length. 

“ She may come to-day — I hope so,” Orsino answered. 

A long pause followed. 

“ I hope so, too,” Spicca whispered. “ I have not much 
strength left. I cannot wait much longer.” 

Again there was silence. Orsino knew that there was 
nothing to be said, nothing at least which he could say, 
to cheer the last hours of the lonely life. But Spicca 
seemed contented that he should sit there. 

“ Give me that photograph,” he said, suddenly, a quar- 
ter of an hour later. 

Orsino looked about him but could not see what Spicca 
wanted. 

“ Hers,” said the feeble voice, “ in the next room.” 

It was the photograph in the little chiselled frame — 
the same frame which had once excited Donna Tullia’s 
scorn. Orsino brought it quickly from its place over the 
chimney-piece, and held it before his friend’s eyes. Spicca 
gazed at it a long time in silence. 

“ Take it away,” he said, at last. “ It is not like her.” 

Orsino put it aside and sat down again. Presently 
Spicca turned a little on the pillow and looked at him. 

“Do you remember that I once said I wished you 
might marry her ? ” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ It was quite true. You understand now ? I could 
not tell you then.” 

“Yes. I understand everything now.” 

“ But I am sorry I said it.” 

“Why?” 


DON ORSINO. 


445 


“ Perhaps it influenced you and has hurt your life. I 
am sorry. You must forgive me.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, do not distress yourself about 
such trifles,” said Orsino, earnestly. “ There is nothing 
to forgive.” 

“ Thank you.” 

Orsino looked at him, pondering on the peaceful end- 
ing of the strange life, and wondering what manner of 
heart and soul the man had really lived with. With 
the intuition which sometimes comes to dying persons, 
Spicca understood, though it was long before he spoke 
again. There was a faint touch of his old manner in his 
words. 

“ I am an awful example, Orsino,” he said, with the 
ghost of a smile. “ Do not imitate me. Do not sacrifice 
your life for the love of any woman. Try and appreci- 
ate sacrifices in others.” 

The smile died away again. 

“And yet I am glad I did it,” he added, a moment 
later. “Perhaps it was all a mistake — but I did my 
best.” 

“You did indeed,” Orsino answered gravely. 

He meant what he said, though he felt that it had 
indeed been all a mistake, as Spicca suggested. The 
young face was very thoughtful. Spicca little knew how 
hard his last cynicism hit the man beside him, for whose 
freedom and safety the woman of whom Spicca was 
thinking had sacrificed so very much. He would die 
without knowing that. 

Thejdoor opened softly and a woman’s light footstep 
was on the threshold. Maria Consuelo came silently 
and swiftly forward with outstretched hands that had 
clasped the dying man’s almost before Orsino realised 
that it was she herself. She fell on her knees beside 
the bed and pressed the powerless cold fingers to her 
forehead. 

Spicca started and for one moment raised his head 
from the pillow. It fell back almost instantly. A look 


446 


DON OESINO. 


of supreme happiness flashed over the deathly features, 
followed by an expression of pain. 

“ Why did you marry him ? ” he asked in tones so loud 
that Orsino started, and Maria Consuelo looked up with 
streaming eyes. 

She did not answer, but tried to soothe him, rising and 
caressing his hand, and smoothing his pillows. 

“ Tell me why you married him ! ” he cried again. “ I 
am dying — I must know ! ” 

She bent down very low and whispered into his ear. 
He shook his head impatiently. 

“ Louder ! I cannot hear ! Louder ! ” 

Again she whispered, more distinctly this time, and 
casting an imploring glance at Orsino, who was too much 
disturbed to understand. 

“ Louder!” gasped the dying man, struggling to sit 
up. “ Louder ! 0 my God ! I shall die without hearing 
you — without knowing ” 

It would have been inhuman to torture the departing 
soul any longer. Then Maria Consuelo made her last 
sacrifice. She spoke in calm, clear tones. 

“ I married to save the man I loved.” 

Spicca’s expression changed. For fully twenty sec- 
onds his sunken eyes remained fixed, gazing into hers. 
Then the light began to flash in them for the last time, 
keen as the lightning. 

“God have mercy on you! God reward you!” he 
cried. 

The shadowy figure quivered throughout its length, 
was still, then quivered again, then sprang up suddenly 
with a leap, and Spicca was standing on the floor, clasp- 
ing Maria Consuelo in his arms. All at once there was 
colour in his face and the fire grew bright in his glance. 

“ Oh, my darling, I have loved you so ! ” he cried. 

He almost lifted her from the ground as he pressed his 
lips passionately upon her forehead. His long thin 
hands relaxed suddenly, and the light broke in his eyes 
as when a mirror is shivered by a blow. For an instant 


DON ORSINO. 


447 


that seemed an age, he stood upright, dead already, and 
then fell back all his length across the bed with wide 
extended arms. 

There was a short, sharp sob, and then a sound of 
passionate weeping filled the silent room. Strongly and 
tenderly Orsino laid his dead friend upon the couch as he 
had lain alive but two minutes earlier. He crossed the 
hands upon the breast and gently closed the staring eyes. 
He could not have had Maria Consuelo see him as he had 
fallen, when she next looked up. 

A little later they stood side by side, gazing at the 
calm dead face, in a long silence. How long they stood, 
they never knew, for their hearts were very full. The 
sun was going down and the evening light filled the 
room. 

“ Did he tell you, before he died — about me? ” asked 
Maria Consuelo in a low voice. 

“ Yes. He told me everything.” 

Maria Consuelo went forward and bent over the face 
and kissed the white forehead, and made the sign of the 
Cross upon it. Then she turned and took Orsino’s hand 
in hers. 

“ I could not help your hearing what I said, Orsino. 
He was dying, you see. You know all, now.” 

Orsino’s fingers pressed hers desperately. For a 
moment he could not speak. Then the agonised words 
came with a great effort, harshly but ringing from the 
heart. 

“ And I can give you nothing ! ” 

He covered his face and turned away. 

“Give me your friendship, dear — I never had your 
love,” she said. 

It was long before they talked together again. 

This is what I know of young Orsino Saracinesca’s life 
up to the present time. Maria Consuelo, Countess Del 
Ferice, was right. She never had his love as he had hers. 
Perhaps the power of loving so is not in him. He is, 
after all, more like San Giacinto than any other member 


448 


DON OKSINO. 


of the family, cold, perhaps, and hard by nature. But 
these things which I have described have made a man of 
him at an age when many men are but boys, and he has 
learnt what many never learn at all — that there is more 
true devotion to be found in the world than most people 
will acknowledge. He may some day be heard of. He may 
some day fall under the great passion. Or he may never 
love at all and may never distinguish himself any more 
than his father has done. One or the other may happen, 
but not both, in all probability. The very greatest pas- 
sion is rarely compatible with the very greatest success 
except in extraordinary good or bad natures. And Orsino 
Saracinesca is not extraordinary in any way. His char- 
acter has been formed by the unusual circumstances in 
which he was placed when very young, rather than by any- 
thing like the self-development which we hear of in the 
lives of great men. From a somewhat foolish and affect- 
edly cynical youth he has grown into a decidedly hard 
and cool-headed man. He is very much seen in society 
but talks little on the whole. If, hereafter, there should 
be anything in his life worth recording, another hand 
than mine may write it down for future readers. 

If any one cares to ask why I have thought it worth 
the trouble to describe his early years so minutely, I 
answer that the young man of the Transition Period 
interests me. Perhaps I am singular in that. Orsino 
Saracinesca is a fair type, I think, of his class at his age. 
I have done my best to be just to him. 


THE END. 


KATHARINE LAUDERDALE 


TWO VOLUMES. CLOTS. $2.00. 

The first of a series of novels dealing with New York life. 


PRESS COMMENTS. 

“ Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and in Katharine Lau- 
derdale we have him at his best.” — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

“A most admirable novel, excellent in style, flashing with humor, and 
full of the ripest and wisest reflections upon men and women.” — The 
Westminster Gazette. 

“It is the first time, we think, in American fiction that any such 
breadth of view has shown itself in the study of our social framework.” 
—Life. 

“Admirable in its simple pathos, its enforced humor, and, above all, 
in its truths to human nature. . . . There is not a tedious page or para- 
graph in it.” — Punch. 

“ It need scarcely be said that the story is skilfully and picturesquely 
written, portraying sharply individual characters in well-defined surround- 
ings.” — New York Commercial Advertiser. 

“ Katharine Lauderdale is a tale of New York, and is up to the highest 
level of his work. In some respects it will probably be regarded as his 
best. None of his works, with the exception of Mr. Isaacs , show so 
clearly his skill as a literary artist.” — San Francisco Evening Bulletin. 

“ The book shows the inventive power, the ingenuity of plot, the subtle 
analysis of character, the skilfulness in presenting shifting scenes, the 
patient working-out of details, the aptitude of deduction, and vividness of 
description which characterize the Saracinesca romances.” — New York 
Home Journal. 

“Nowhere has the author shown more admirable understanding and 
command of the novel-writer’s art. . . . Whoever wants an original and 
fascinating book can be commended to this one.” — Philadelphia Evening 
Telegraph. 


A Sequel to “KATHARINE LAUDERDALE,” 

THE RALSTONS. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


F. Marion Crawford’s Novels. 


NEW UNIFORM EDITION. 


12mo. Cloth. $1.00 each. 


SARACINESCA. 

“ The work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make 
it great, — that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of giving a 
graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope’s temporal 
power. . . . The story is exquisitely told.” — Boston Traveller* 

SANT’ ILARIO. 

A Sequel to SARACINESCA. 

“ A singularly powerful and beautiful story. ... It fulfils every require- 
ment of artistic fiction. It brings out what is most impressive m human 
action, without owing any of its effectiveness to sensationalism or artifice. 
It is natural, fluent in evolution, accordant with experience, graphic in 
description, penetrating in analysis, and absorbing in interest.” — New York 
Tribune. 


DON ORSINO. 

A Sequel to SARACINESCA and SANT ’ IIARIO. 

“ Perhaps the cleverest novel of the year. . . . There is not a dull para- 
graph in the book, and the reader may be assured that once begun, the story 
of Don Orsino will fascinate him until its close.” — The Critic. 

PIETRO CHISLERI. 

“ The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, the power 
and subtlety of the portrayal of character, the charm of the romantic envi- 
ronment, — the entire atmosphere, indeed, — rank this novel at once among 
the great creations.” — The Boston Budget. 

A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 

“ It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this brief and 
vivid story. ... It is doubly a success, being full of human sympathy, as 
well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the unusual with the com- 
monplace, the clever juxtaposition of innocence and guilt, comedy and 
tragedy, simplicity and intrigue.” — Critic. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


MR. ISAACS. 

A Tale of Modern India. 

“ Under an unpretentious title we have here the most brilliant novel, or 
rather romance, that has been given to the world for a very long time.” — 
The American. 


DR. CLAUDIUS. 

A True Story. 

“ It by no means belies the promises of its predecessor. The story, an 
exceedingly improbable and romantic one, is told with much skill ; the 
characters are strongly marked without any suspicion of caricature, and the 
author’s ideas on social and political subjects are often brilliant and always 
striking. It is no exaggeration to say that there is not a dull page in the 
book, which is peculiarly adapted for the recreation of student or thinker.” 
— Living Church. 


TO LEEWARD. 

“ A story of remarkable power.” — The Review of Reviews. 

“ The four characters with whose fortunes this novel deals, are, perhaps, 
the most brilliantly executed portraits in the whole of Mr. Crawford’s long 
picture gallery, while for subtle insight into the springs of human passion 
and for swift dramatic action none of the novels surpasses this one.” — The 
News and Courier. 

THE THREE FATES. 

“ Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities as a student of 
human nature and his finest resources as a master of an original and pictur- 
esque style to bear upon this story. Taken for all in all it is one of the most 
pleasing of all his productions in fiction, and it affords a view of certain 
phases of American, or perhaps we should say of New York, life that have 
not hitherto been treated with anything like the same adequacy and felicity.” 
— Boston Beacon. 

A CIGARETTE-MAKER’S ROMANCE. 

“The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Crawford done 
more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism is only the case and 
cover for those intense feelings which, placed under no matter what humble 
conditions, produce the most dramatic and the most tragic situations. . . . 
This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse and common material, the 
meanest surroundings, the most sordid material prospects, and out of the 
vehement passions which sometimes dominate all human beings to build up 
with these poor elements, scenes, and passages, the dramatic and emotional 
power of which at once enforce attention and awaken the profoundest inter- 
est.” — New York Tribune. 

AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. 

A Fantastic Tale. 

Illustrated by W. J. Hennessy. 

“ The artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed 
and carried out is admirable and delightful. . . . Mr. Crawford has scored 
a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained throughout. . . . 
A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting story.” — New York Tributte. 


GREIFENSTEIN. 

“ . . . Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It pos- 
sesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual ability. Its 
interest is sustained to the close, and it is an advance even on the previous 
work of this talented author. Like all Mr. Crawford’s work this novel is 
crisp, clear, and vigorous, and will be read with a great deal of interest.” — 
New York Evening Telegram. 


WITH THE IMMORTALS. 

“ The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only to a 
writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern thought and 
progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in proper literary clothing,* 
could be successfully attempted only by one whose active literary ability 
should be fully equalled by his power of assimilative knowledge both literary 
and scientific, and no less by his courage and capacity for hard work. The 
book will be found to have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader 
of novels. Indeed, Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite 
above the ordinary plane of novel interest;” — Boston Advertiser. 


ZOROASTER. 

“ It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and dignity 
of its language; but its men and women are not men and women of a play. 
By the naturalness of their conversation and behavior they seem to live and 
lay hold of our human sympathy more than the same characters on a stage 
could possibly do.” — The New York Times. 


A ROMAN SINGER. 

“One of the earliest and best works of this famous novelist. . . . None 
but a genuine artist could have made so true a picture of human life, crossed 
by human passions and interwoven with human weakness. It is a perfect 
specimen of literary art.” — The Newark Advertiser. 


PAUL PATOFF. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


KHALED. 

A Story of Arabia. 

“ Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, suggested 
rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and motive, the building 
out and development of the character of the woman who becomes the hero’s 
wife and whose love he finally wins being an especially acute and highly 
finished example of the story-teller’s art. . . . That it is beautifully written 
and holds the interest of the reader, fanciful as it all is, to the very end, none 
who know the depth and artistic finish of Mr. Crawford’s work need be 
told.” — The Chicago Times. 

CHILDREN OF THE KING. 

“ One of the most artistic and exquisitely finished pieces of work that 
Crawford has produced. The picturesque setting, Calabria and its surround- 
ings, the beautiful Sorrento and the Gulf of Salermo, with the bewitching 
accessories that climate, sea, and sky afford, give Mr. Crawford rich oppor- 
tunities to show his rare descriptive powers. As a whole the book is strong 
and beautiful through its simplicity, and ranks among the choicest of the 
author’s many fine productions.” — Public Opinioti. 

MARZIO’S CRUCIFIX. 

“ This work belongs to the highest department of character-painting in 
words.” — The Churchman. 

“ We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford possesses 
in an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. His sense of 
proportion is just, and his narrative flows along with ease and perspicuity. 
It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, so naturally does the 
story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent is the sequence of incident 
after incident. As a story Marzio ’s Crucifix is perfectly constructed.” — 
New York Commercial Advertiser. 

MARION DARCHE. 

“ Full enough of incident to have furnished material for three or four 
stories. . . . A most interesting and engrossing book. Every page unfolds 
new possibilities, and the incidents multiply rapidly.” — Detroit Free Press. 

“ We are disposed to rank Marion Darche as the best of Mr. Crawford's 
American stories.” — The Literary World. 


THE NOVEL: What It Is. 

18mo. Clotli. 75 cents. 

“ When a master of his craft speaks, the public may well listen with care- 
ful attention, and since no fiction-writer of the day enjoys in this country a 
broader or more enlightened popularity than Marion Crawford, his explana- 
tion of The Novel: What It Is, will be received with flattering interest.” 
— The Boston Beacon. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


WORKS BY ROLF BOLDREWOOD 


NEVERMORE. 

12mo. Cloth, SSI. 25. 


ROBBERY UNDER ARMS. 

New Edition. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

We have nothing but praise for this story. Of adventure of the most 
stirring kind there is, as we have said, abundance. But there is more than 
this. The characters are drawn with great skill. Every one of the gang of 
bushrangers is strongly individualized. We have not the mere catalogue 
of fortis Gyas fortisque Cloanthus , but genuine men. The father, a sturdy 
Englishman, whose whole nature is warped by early influences; the hero, 
poor “Jim,” his brother, a simple, lovable tellow who might have gone straight 
under happier circumstances ; Starlight, a gentleman by birth and education, 
who has a strange story behind him in the Old Country ; and, lastly, the half- 
breed Warrigal, — are all admirable figures. This is a book of no common, 
literary force. — Spectator. 

THE MINER’S RIGHT. 

A TALE OF THE AUSTRALIAN GOLD-FIELDS. 

12mo. Clotli, $1.25. 

Full of good passages, passages abounding in vivacity, in the color and 
play of life. . . . The pith of the book lies in its singularly fresh and vivid 
pictures of the humors of the gold-fields ; tragic humors enough they are too, 
here and again. . . . The various types of humanity that strut, or in those 
days used to strut, across that strangest of the world’s stage* an Australian 
gold-field, are capitally touched in, for Mr. Boldrewood can draw a man as 
well as tell a story. — World. 

THE SQUATTER’S DREAM. 

13mo. Cloth. $1.35. 

A story of Australian life, told with directness and force. The author's 
mastery of his subjects adds much to the impressiveness of the story, which 
no doubt might be told as literally true of hundreds of restless and ambitious 
young Australians. — N. Y. Tribune. 

A COLONIAL REFORMER. 

13mo. Cloth, $1.35. 

“ Rolf Boldrewood ” has written much and well on the Australian colonies, 
but chiefly in the form of novels, and good novels they are too. The Austra- 
lian scenes, rural and urban, are vividly described by Mr. Boldrewood, and 
there are among the characters examples of the various adventurers and 
rogues that infest new countries, which recall our early California days. 
Whoever wants to know how they live in Australia will have the want sup- 
plied. — Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 

One of the most interesting books about Australia we have ever read.-— 
Glasgow Herald. 

Mr. Boldrewood can tell what he knows with great point and vigor, and 
there is no better reading than the adventurous parts of his books. — Saturday 
Review. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


THE STICKIT MINISTER 


AND SOME COMMON MEN, 


12vno. pp. 283. $1.75. 


“We doubt if any more delightful volume of short stories has been published this 
year. . . . It is destined to become a classic.” — The Boston Traveller. 

“This is one of the very best books of fiction we have examined recently.” — 
Review of Reviews. 

“. . .A treasury of Scotch stories and word pictures. Mr. Crockett has a quick 
eye, a discriminating mind, a keen sense of humour, a thorough acquaintance with 
Scotch people, and a ready pen; and his volume is delightful from cover to cover.” — 
The Congregationalist. 

“ To call this a volume of unusually good short stories, is to give the author’s 
work faint praise. He delineates Scotch character and portrays Scotch characters 
charmingly. The changes from grave to gay are rung through these fascinating 
pages by a master hand. Here we have the genuine Scotch humour mingled with 
thrilling pathos, and a style that is as vigorous and bracing as the air of Scotland’s 
heather-clad hills. . . . The stories will find a host of readers.” — New York 
Observer. 

“ It would be sufficient claim to distinction for a man to have written the first little 
sketch, but the two dozen mark their author as a man of broad endowments, a man 
who sees tragedy and comedy, pathos and humour, tenderness and greatness, in every- 
thing and everybody, and who has the additional faculty of describing what he sees 
so that his readers see it with him. . . . The stories are all, without a single excep- 
tion, very well worth reading, if not of taking a place among the permanencies of 
Scottish literature.” — The Interior. 

“ The humour and pathos of Scottish life is exquisitely expressed with the subtle 
touches of a trained literary artist in these sketches. ... Mr. Crockett wins admira- 
tion because of his sincerity, his possession of sentiment in distinction from sen- 
timentality, his appreciation of the qualities inherent in human nature in the 
humblest stations, and the unerring felicity of his style. These sketches deserve 
a hearty welcome on this side of the water, for they deal with entirely unconventional 
situations, and have a flavour all their own.” — The Boston Beacon. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


NOW READY , . 


A New Novel by the Author of “The Stickit Minister* 



Being Some Passages in the Life of John Faa, Lord and Carl of 
Little Egypt. 


By S. R. CROCKETT, 


Author of ** The Stickit Minister and Some Common Men 


!2mo, cloth extra. $1.50. 


FROM THE ‘FOREWORD.’ 


cs . . . The things that befell us in those strange years 
when the hill outlaws collogued with the wild freetraders of the 
Holland traffic, and fell upon us to the destruction of the life 
of man, the carrying away of much bestial, besides the putting 
of many of His Majesty’s lieges in fear. . . . 

“ It was with May Mischief that all the terrible blast of 
storm began (as indeed most storms among men ever do begin 
with a bonny lass, like that concerning Helen of Troy, which 
lasted ten year and of which men speak to this day). The 
tale began with May Mischief, as you shall hear. I keep the 
old name still, though the years have gone by, and though 
now in any talks of the old days, and of all our ancient ploys, 
there are the bairns to be considered. But it is necessary that 
ere the memory quite die out, some of us who saw these things 
should write them down.” 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 






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